All is fair in Love and War
by GraceBe
Summary: Downton 1920. Isobel meets a man from her past and falls for him all over again. What happens when the ghosts of her past with him come back to haunt her?
1. Scarred

**All is fair in Love and War**

Chapter 1 - Scarred

"Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real." ~ Cormac McCarthy

_Downton Abbey, 1920 _

Isobel Crawley's hand was shaking. At first she didn't realized it, but as soon as she forced her eyes away from his scarred hand back to her own plate, she saw how her knife wiggled uncontrollably over her broccoli. Hoping no one would notice her state, she put the silverware down and sipped from her wine. The alcohol did nothing to help. Her hand was still trembling when she picked up her knife again.

She scolded herself. She was overreacting.

It couldn't be. It made no sense. It wasn't true.

She was seeing ghosts.

That, however would not be such a surprise. With Matthew and Mary's wedding ahead, there was a lot to think about and a lot to do. Her busy mind was playing a trick on her, because she was tired. That was all.

She decided to concentrate on her food again, but suddenly every piece of the delicious bite in her mouth turned to sawdust. Against her better judgement her eyes travelled across the table and came to rest on the back of his hand. The scar. There was something about the scar, something so unique that she had never forgotten about it. She had seen it before, had taken care of the wound, that had been inflicted by a small machete, near a battlefield. She still heard the cannon fire, the drums, and screams of pain. So much blood, so many wounded men, so many desperate tears no one had wanted to talk about once the war was all over.

More than once the hand marked by that scar had caressed her bare skin, had caused her to shiver, had taught her desire and joy…

She cleared her throat. She was wrong. It was just the scar looking very similar to the one she remembered...

He was sitting next to Cora, engaged in a pleasant conversation, but Isobel was afraid to raise her eyes to have another look at him. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice her interest in him - especially not he or the Dowager Countess. She was afraid the mere memory of something she had shared with a man that surely wasn't him, couldn't be him, could cause irritation among the family and the other guests. Violet was already at her best when it came to picking on Tom Branson and she didn't need that attention for herself right now.

Whil she swallowed another sip of her wine, she tried to sort out her confusion. How would it make sense for him to sit at the same table? Tonight she had arrived after him and his family, had missed Carson announcing their family name. What was his name?

Matthew had mentioned Mary's godfather's family would attend the dinner, but she hadn't paid a lot of attention to the details. The Crawleys had so many friends and acquaintances. She had lost count of them a long time ago, since she barely met any of them more than once. Now she wished she had listened to her son.

Surely she could ask Matthew now, but there had to be another way to get the information without arousing his curiosity. After all she only needed the assurance that she was actually mistaken, so very much mistaken.

Her glass was empty. She sighed inwardly when Carson was suddenly behind her, offering to refill it. What must he think of her? Isobel nodded and the butler poured her another glass. For a moment the noise around the table died down and she heard Cora's smooth voice addressing him, but she still didn't catch his name.

What's in a name, anyway?

A clear, warning voice in the back of her head forbid her to go back in time to remember how she had taken care of his injury... or how it had felt when he had made love to her.

For a second too long Isobel looked across the table. Their eyes met and then she quickly looked down, trying to ignore the heat she felt rising in her cheeks. Knowing she was making an utter fool of herself, she forced herself to look up again. He was still staring at her and she knew from the look in his eyes that he knew.

He knew who she was.

She hadn't been mistaken.

She returned his gaze, and slightly, ever so slightly she shook her head. He understood. Grateful Isobel watched him chat with Cora again, giving her the attention a hostess deserved.

"Mother?"

Matthew's voice was a welcome distraction from the arriving waves of unwanted memories. She looked at him with a wide smile, "What is it?"

"Are you all right?"

"Of course." She picked up her wine glass.

"Good… you seemed preoccupied."

"I'm not." She was still smiling, but Matthew understood the underlying message and changed the subject.

"I got a telegram today," Matthew reported. "I forget to tell you this afternoon. Alexander will arrive tomorrow around midday."

"I see. How curious, after all this time…."

She had almost forgotten about him. Matthew had told her about the invitation he had sent to his godfather, but Isobel had feared he would decline. As head physician in the biggest hospital in Manchester, Sir Alexander Ferguson was after all a busy man. The lifelong bacholer had given his life to his job and with growing age he had become less and less sociable. They hadn't or heard seen him since they had left Manchester, despite the letters Matthew had written over the years. Isobel wasn't too keen to see him again, but it meant the world to Matthew to have his godfather at his wedding.

"I've spoken to Cora and she said, he could stay here," Matthew continued eagerly.

"How nice of her. I'll thank her later."

"I was very pleased to hear from him. After all, he was the one of those who encouraged me to come to Downton, despite my initial doubts."

Again Isobel didn't answer. Matthew noticed her lack of interest with growing frustration and gave up. Instead of addressing his mother again, he gave Tom Branson a side glance. The young man was clearly not himself. There was sweat on his forehead, his face was flushed, and his voice was unsteady, while he loudly ranted about Irish politics…

* * *

After dinner the women went to the drawing room to have their coffee, while the men stayed behind to enjoy their port and a cigar. Isobel was glad to catch a break from all the tension that had surrounded the dinner table. As cruel, dumb, and unnecessary Larry Grey's prank had been, it had at least given her the chance to distract Matthew, and everyone else who might have noticed, from her pensive mood.

While the other women gathered around the fireplace, Isobel was stuck with the Dowager in the corner of the room. She barely heard what the older woman was saying. The beautiful and grand drawing room felt almost claustrophobic, an experience she wasn't used to. She had never been someone to be easily intimidated, but tonight she felt utterly cornered by his presence - and the obvious presence of his wife. Almost unable to take her eyes from the dark-haired, but serious-looking woman who was talking to Cora, Isobel clung to her saucer as if her life depended on it.

"Did someone spike your coffee or am I really that uninteresting?" Violet asked, when she realized Isobel paid even less attention to her than usually.

"No, why…." Isobel looked dumbfounded at the Dowager. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking..."

"May I ask what's wrong? I'm a good listener."

Isobel made a face, taking Violet's offer with a grain of salt."Nothing's wrong, I was just thinking about Larry and his family."

Violet scoffed, a little annoyed, "I admit they're more interesting than I've given them credit for."

"I don't think I've ever seen them around here before."

"The late Lord Grantham and Lord Merton's father were close friends. Our families go back a long way."

Merton… Merton… did she ever hear the name before? She was pretty sure that he had never been introduced to her as Lord Merton… maybe she was wrong after all. Uneasy she moved in her seat. "That doesn't really answer my question though."

"No, but there's nothing more to say about it. Lord Merton is a peer and before he succeeded his father, he was in diplomatic service, whatever that means. Rumour has it his wife's not happy with him being home too often."

Isobel covered her surprise about Violet's last remark with a fakes cough and finished her coffee. Damn the British upper class with its names and titles. Damn, the conventions and the ceremony. There was no logic and no common sense in any of it. Maybe she had to look up his name in their volume of Burke's Peerage… right now she was desperate enough to sneak into Robert's library to check just to calm her nerves - or to come to terms with the fact that she was facing a problem, if the man was who she thought he was.

"The more important question at hand is, whether you'll help me to make at least half a gentleman out of Brans… Tom for the wedding. Matthew picked him as his best man and I'm sure not even you want him to look like an ordinary salesman."

Isobel shrugged. "I'll ask Molesley to look through Matthew's morning coats. I think one of them will fit him."

Violet was pleased. "That's the first normal thing you've said since we first met."

* * *

_Bretagne, 1918 _

The dark sky over the rough sea was seething. Heavy Rain was hitting the window and the light on the small table at the wall barely spent enough light for him to see the small buttons of his vest. The wind outside was icy and the cold draught sneaked in through the narrow gaps of the old window. It didn't help that his right hand was heavily bandaged and hurt like hell.

"Can I help?" He heard her soft chuckle behind him and turned around.

"I feel useless," he admitted defeated. He looked at his hand and sighed.

"Well then, I'll give it a try." She loosened the knot of his tie and redid it, before she bothered with the small buttons of his vest.

He watched her closely while her fingers efficiently fulfilled their tasks. She was wrapped in her dressing gown, her long, blonde, silvery hair was open and fell over her delicate shoulders. She looked so fragile, yet she was strong and swift in everything she did. She hadn't changed a bit since he had last seen her all those years ago.

"You're better than any valet I've ever known or seen," he said, embarrassingly aware of her nearness, of her warm, naked body underneath the practical fabric of the robe. Her scent filled his nose and he suddenly wished he could stay with her in this small, cold room for the rest of time.

"Do you have a valet?" she asked. It was the first time, she was asking a personal question. They had the silent understanding that their lives outside this war was off limits. Trying to hide his astonishment he cleared his throat. "At home, yes, but believe it or not, I can dress myself without his help."

She smiled amused, but didn't reply. She focused on fixing his tie. "I hope I did him justice," she said, after she had finished.

"I'm sure you have."

She placed her hands on his chest, raised herself on tiptoes and kissed him. At first tenderly and then with growing passion.

"Thank you," he mumbled against her mouth when she broke the kiss.

"For helping you getting dressed?" she asked.

"For saving my life," he clarified and showed her his injured hand. "Without you I would probably be dead by now."

She slightly shook her head and kissed him again. "I consider last night your thank you gift for me."

He crooked his eyebrow, as he ran his healthy hand over her back, imagining how it would feel to caress her bare skin again. "In that case I insist you charge me with interest. I doubt my dues are paid off."

"Are you sure?" she asked and again for the first time, she seemed a little self-conscious.

"Quite sure… unless you ask me to go."

"That's not it…. I just thought…. You haven't found what you were looking for yet. Maybe you have to leave…"

"I'm not sure I'm done here just yet," he said and pulled her closer. "Have dinner with me tonight."

The hesitation was gone when she accepted his invitation with another kiss. "I will," she said, as she brushed her lips over his mouth. "I'm sure you need someone to help you getting undressed again."

***********tbc***********

**So, I'm back and I admit I'm messing with you... ;-) Let me know, what you think :-) **


	2. Rules

**Thank you for your kind reviews for the first chapter. I hope, you'll enjoy this chapter just as much. **

**Chapter 2 - Rules**

_"You'll learn, as you get older, that rule are made to be broken." ~ Mandy Hale _

_Bretagne, 1918_

It was almost midnight, when she turned up on his doorstep. Her knock at the door was soft, almost inaudible. He smiled, because he had prayed, hoped she would pay him another visit tonight. Five days he had spent in this village so far and four of these nights he had spent with her. It was cruel, sinful to feel like this, but being with her again after all these years was almost worth the war in all its brutalness.

The moment he had stepped into her small, dark office, he had recognized her and his world had turned into a better place - despite the surreal circumstances.

He was willing to extend his stay in this cold, awful village just to be near her. Of course, he couldn't tell her that. She wouldn't want to hear it and he wasn't allowed to say it out loud. It was against their unspoken rule, established a lifetime ago on another continent and in another war.

"I've got news," she announced, as soon as she had entered his room. "I think I found him."

"Really?"

She handed him a telegram. "It arrived just before I left the office. It seems your Mister Pommeroy is in a military hospital near Dernancourt."

He didn't know what to say. Of course, he should feel glad for the new ray of hope that would end this unwanted mission of his, but he wasn't. "I don't want to get my hopes up," he said without enthusiasm. "Remember, we thought we had found him two days ago." He raised his bandaged hand. "Look, how it ended. A mad man stabbed me with a machete."

"I know. You'll only know for sure, when you see him. At least the description I gave them, fits this time. The man suffers from amnesia and suffered severe internal injuries, but they are optimistic he'll survive."

He watched her, while she took off her coat and hat. With amazement he noticed not for the first time that she never looked exhausted or tired. She seemed always energized and full of life - even after a long day in a tiresome office, burdened with the often hopeless task of finding people who went missing.

"When will you go?"

"Will you come with me?"

The questions came out unisono and they both chuckled. He wrapped her into an embrace and kissed her tenderly.

"I mean it," he said. "Will you come with me?"

"I hoped you would ask," she said with a bright smile on her face. "If it won't take too long… being away for one day won't hurt."

"Dernancourt is not too far away from here," he said eagerly . "I'm sure I can arrange for us to get there and back in one day."

He kissed her once more. His mouth travelled from her mouth, over her chin and her neck. He noticed with satisfaction how she relaxed under the soft caress of his lips. Together they sank onto the bed, where they melted into a soft embrace. She cupped his face with her hands and her answer to his suggestion got lost between kisses and the exchange of tender touches. Soon he wanted to get rid off the barriers of clothing between them, wanted to feel the softness of her body, but his injury foiled his intention to undress her.

He groaned with frustration and pain and rolled back on his back. "I'm sorry." He rubbed his face with his left hand.

"Whatever for?" she asked and wrapped her leg over his legs. She snuggled up against him and kissed his neck.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, when she traced her index finger along the bandage.

"A bit," he admitted. "But that's not it."

"So, what is it?" he felt her eyes resting on his profile. He swallowed, wanted to avoid at any cost to look at her. He was scared to give too much of himself away. After all, he didn't want to break their rules.

"Let's say I can't touch you the way I want and that casts quit a damper on things."

She gently moved herself on top of him and stroked his cheek. "That wasn't so important last night, why is it today?"

He lowered his eyes, still avoiding to look at her.

"As I said, I want to touch you..." he noticed how hoarse he sounded and wished his upbringing and good manners wouldn't forbid him to phrase him how much he longed to please her needs.

"How about seeing me…?" Her voice trailed off while she busied herself with the buttons of her blouse. "Will that do?"

She got back to her feet and slowly undressed up to her corset. His throat was dry, when he sat up to watch her. As soon as her skirt was down he pulled her against him and her hands dug into his hair. Being the pragmatist she was, she wore one of the corsets that were closed in the front. She didn't need a ladies maid or anyone else to get her ready for bed. Her independence usually aroused his curiosity, tonight it aroused his desire for her to an almost painful extent. He kissed her chest and with his left hand he undid the ribbons, slowly freeing her body from the disturbing garmont and the chemise.

The pain in his hand and his frustration about the bandage quickly turned into pure bliss and fulfilment.

* * *

_Downton, 1920 _

Glad the dinner was finally over Isobel stood in the grand hallway and waited for Carson to bring her coat. As always when the guests were about to leave, the Abbey was like a busy beehive. Footmen moved criss-cross, carrying coats and top hats, and people exchanged last thanks and greetings.

While she waited, she watched Lady Merton and Cora saying goodbye. The sight of this woman made her incredible uncomfortable. She had always sensed there was a wife - at least in France she had been sure of it, but seeing her with her own eyes was facing a reality she hadn't been prepared for.

There had been rules in France. No questions asked meant no answers had to be given. As insane as it sounded, but the war had made things simple between them. Seeing his wife suddenly complicated everything and aroused guilt in her.

"It was a splendid dinner, wasn't it?" she heard him asking behind her. "I'm just sorry for my son's behaviour. Larry has an odd sense of humour. I fail to understand it."

She didn't turn around. She didn't want to face him. Flustered she liked her lips and said, "There was no harm done. I'm sure Tom Branson will have recovered in time for the wedding."

"I should hope so. I should hate to think the main thing you remember about my family is the distress we have caused."

"I'm not distressed."

Carson arrived with Isobel's coat and she was grateful for not longer being on her own with him, but he didn't leave. He waited patiently somewhere behind her, like a puma waited for his prey. After Carson had left again, he stepped next to her. She saw him in the corner of her eye, still unsure whether it was wise to face him. The fear of exposure due some unwitting word or gaze was paralysing her.

"They make a fine couple," he said, as if he were talking about the weather while she toyed with the gloves in her hand.

"Mary and Matthew? Yes, they are well-suited. She's right for him."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'm very fond of Mary."

"Me too."

She wanted to run, to flee the Abbey as soon as possible, but Matthew was stuck in a conversation with Robert and it didn't look as if he was about to leave any time soon. There was no way out and she had to accept it.

"So, Mrs Crawley…," the emphasis on her last name was nothing she appreciated. Names had never meant anything to them back then. Was he really cross with her, because back in France she still had made him believe her name was still Turnbull like it had been when they first met in South Africa? He had never told her he was Lord either nor had he mentioned a wife. "I hope, we'll meet again at the wedding."

"I guess, we will... Lord Merton."

"Dickie!"

To Isobel's shock Lady Merton called for her husband and he just nodded at her, almost dismissively in his attitude towards her.

"I'm afraid I have to go. And again, please overlook my son's behaviour." She felt his eyes resting on her, but she still looked away.

"I think I will."

She watched him crossing the hallway to meet his wife who didn't seem pleased with him. She hissed something into his direction, Isobel couldn't understand, but his answer sounded just as snappy.

"Mother, will you come?" Suddenly Matthew stood next to her.

"Well, I was waiting for you the whole time," she snapped at him.

"What did Lord Merton want?" Matthew asked.

"I just apologized for his son," she said. "I told him no to think about it."

"He seems a nice chap," Matthew said. "But his family appears rather sour. The son is an arrogant fool and Lady Merton looks as if she has acid in her veins."

Isobel acknowledged his statement with a shrug. "I guess we won't see too much of them in the future."

"Probably not," Matthew agreed and stretched a little. "Let's go home then. I really need to get out of this stuff shirt."

* * *

_Bretagne, 1918_

It was a cold, yet sunny morning after a night of heavy rainfall. He saw how she shivered in her coat. He had to call in some favours to arrange for a car to take them to Dernancourt. According to the driver, a young Corporal, the route he had picked was a safe one.

"No Germans in sight, Sir," he had said with an almost boyish grin on his face, when he had climbed behind the wheel.

He believed him, but he had still decided to take his old army revolver with him. Just to make sure, they could defend themselves in case of unforeseen complications.

She was sitting next to him in the fond of the car. There was an open file on her lap.

"That's all we have on him," she said. "Two pages with his medical file, the rest is still a mystery, but it appears he's not a soldier. He wore civilian clothes when they found him and there was no dog tag on him."

"Does that happen often?" he asked. "Civilians who end up in military hospitals?"

She shrugged, "It can happen…. He was badly wounded and they didn't know what to do with him. I guess they hoped someone would search for him. Which we do now…" her voice trailed off as she closed the file. He sensed there was something on her mind, but she was uncertain how to phrase it.

"Just ask," he said amused. "I won't bite."

"I don't want to be impertinent."

"I doubt you could be."

She chuckled. "I know a lot of people who would disagree with you."

"What do you want to know?"

Her question came out without hesitation, "Who's Mister Pommeroy and what's he to you? I mean you come all the way over from England to France into a war zone to search for him, so I gathered he must mean something to you."

Her question was a fair one. When he first arrived he had only told her, he needed to find an old family friend, he hadn't seen in years. He understood that his explanation wasn't neither honest nor sufficient, especially not now that she was driving across the Bretagne with him.

"He's actually more of a friend of my sister than of me. To be truthful the last time I saw him, I hauled him out of the house." He felt a little bad about the lie, but it was close enough to the truth to prevent him from getting a bad conscience.

"I see…. So he's a special friend."

"Yes, I feel I owe it to him - and her."

She agreed with a nod, obviously satisfied. "You're a good man," she said.

He cleared his throat, embarrassed by her unjustified praise. "Let's say, I try to be."

"Does that mean you will take him back to England with you?"

"If possible, yes. If he's really that badly wounded, we'll see what I can do for his well-being."

He didn't want to say it, but perhaps there was still a chance for him to extend his stay. Every day and night he spent in her company made him feel more and more drawn to her. It was foolish and dangerous to fall in love with her, but he was tired of fighting it.

He knew next to nothing about her and her life. There was a wedding band on her left hand and a faded scar across her lower upper body that told him she must have had or at least had lost one child. Her last name was a mystery to him and he never asked her, if it had changed. Just as he had lied to her only a minute ago, she could have done the same every time she mentioned something personal.

He hated to think she could be married to someone else, but told himself he had no right to be jealous. He had no claim on her and no right to ask questions, she didn't want to answer. Objectively he couldn't find any fault in it when she lied to him the same way he lied to her.

Once this mission of his was over and he had to go home, he better knew nothing about her or otherwise he would move heaven and hell to find her.

They had their rules and it was in their best interest to stick to them.

********tbc********


	3. Reunions

**Here we go with Chapter 3. Beforehand I want to say 'thank you' for your reviews and messages. I would love to answer some of your questions, but since my replies would really give away big parts of the plot, I will just say, stick with the story. I'm not a big fan of spoilers, because they ruin the fun of reading. Boy, you can tell, I'm a gal who grew up without the internet…. LOL **

**Chapter 3 - Reunions **

"_I hope we meet again when we're a little older and wiser."_

_Downton, 1920 _

The dinner at the evening before the wedding was remarkable in more than just one way. At the table the bride bursted into tears, Cora's mother, Martha Levinson was just as annoying as Cora and Violet had predicted, and Matthew's godfather Sir Alexander Ferguson was as charming as ever - to anyone but Isobel.

When Matthew had announced Alexander had accepted the invitation to the wedding she had hoped against hope and experience, he had buried his grudge against her. Well, she knew now without a doubt he hadn't and even more so, it was obvious that he didn't want to bury it. He seemed happy with his hate for her, which was as obscure as it was disturbing. To her, hate and dislike were a waste of time and energy.

As always in the past Alexander's dismissive attitude towards her was well-hidden. Neither Matthew nor anyone else would ever suspect that his godfather couldn't stand the sight of Isobel. If anything Alexander Ferguson was subtle. He hid his heavy dislike behind a facade of niceties and good manners. Unlike the Dowager who was never subtle, but always sharp, Alexander was smooth on the front and attacked when no one was watching.

This night he did so, shortly before Isobel and Matthew were leaving. He waited for the right moment when Matthew was talking to Cora and Robert and Isobel was waiting for her coat, when he approached her and said, "It's quite a kingdom that will be Matthew's one day."

"It is," she agreed. "Though it loses its flamboyance once you know it better."

"Well, flamboyant or not, I'm sorry, Reginald will never have the chance to see it. It could all have been his, if you hadn't driven him into his grave before his time."

She felt as if he had slapped her. Without having a chance to reply, she watched him turning away. He had gone upstairs, before she had recovered from the shock. Glad, he was staying in the Abbey and not at Crawley House, she kept up a brave face when Carson told her the car was ready to leave.

"Sir Alexander is a peculiar fellow," Violet said, when Isobel climbed into the car with her.

"Everyone who isn't an aristocrat is peculiar to you," Isobel replied dryly and wished the wedding was already over.

* * *

The day of the wedding was a cold, but sunny spring day. It could have been a perfect day for Isobel, if she didn't have to deal with the presence of Matthew's godfather Alexander Ferguson and the Mertons. At least Larry Grey spared them all the doubtful pleasure of his attendance, but his father was there and she wished it was easier to ignore him. As easy as it was to get away from Alexander, the harder it was to find a way to stay away from him. She used her role as mother of the groom to mingle with as many guests as possible. She wandered from room to room, even went outside where a few hard-boiled guests enjoyed the cold day, but everywhere she went, he was already there, chatting with the other guests. He looked so tall and handsome in his morning coat, that it was hard for her to take her eyes off him. She had a hard time admitting it to herself, but she still found him as attractive as the first time she had met him. Back then he had worn blood spread uniform. His hair had been black and he had worn a boyish smile on his face. A smile he had quickly lost like so many other young men who had fought in the war and had seen death and destruction. A lifetime had passed since then, but she remembered the day as vividly as if it had happened yesterday.

Isobel sighed, sipped her champagne, and turned away, hoping he didn't notice her watching him. Her plan was to go back inside, but first she saw Matthew, Robert, and Alexander Ferguson standing near the doorway, and then the Dowager and Lady Merton who sat in the corner of the room that offered the best view over the lawn beyond the windows. Feeling trapped, she wondered, if she should stay outside in the cold, facing her former lover, or if she wanted to go straight into this snake pit.

In the end the decision was made for her. She sensed his nearness before she heard him clearing his throat behind her.

"Mrs Crawley, how lovely to see you here."

Telling herself to be brave she turned around. "Lord Merton."

"Do you enjoy the reception?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. It's a marvellous day." She felt she had never told an more obvious lie, but if he didn't believe her, he didn't show it.

"Indeed." He folded his hands behind his back and gave her an appreciative glance.

"You look very beautiful."

She sensed how her blood rushed into her cheeks. "You flatter me."

"As a matter of fact, you haven't changed since we last met in France. When was that again?"

She shrugged, pretending as if she hadn't thought about it herself, even though she would never forget the last night they had spent together. "Two years ago… I think."

"I missed you…."

"I should go…."

They said it at the same time and, a little embarrassed, both fell silent.

Isobel was the one who found the courage to speak again. "Don't… don't say that, because we never knew each other well enough."

"I beg to differ." There was it again. His stoism. His damn perseverance that made it so hard to turn her back on him. She bit her lip, wondering what she could say or do to make him go away.

"Who's the man who sat next to you in the church?" he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

"Why?"

"Because you seem to want to avoid him at all costs. Otherwise you wouldn't hesitate to go inside. I guess he's the reason for it, because he hasn't talked to you since he entered the church, although he sat next to you."

Defeated by the logical conclusion of his observation, she said, "He's your equivalent. Sir Alexander is Matthew's godfather from Manchester. We don't see eye to eye."

"That's obvious."

"I see, I must work on my poker face."

"I like your face just the way it is."

"Please, don't... "

"Why not? During the war…."

"The war is over!" she cut him off. "Let's not make too much of what happened back then."

Her words hurt him. She saw the pain they caused flickering from eyes all across his face and she instantly regretted them. They were untrue and very unfair.

"I should go. Have a good day, Mrs Crawley."

She didn't find the heart or the courage to say anything else. She just let me walk past her, defying the wish to grab for his arm to keep him back.

Isobel didn't know how long she stood in the cold, but the sky became cloudy and the wind freshened up. It was the old Lady Grantham who joined her outside when everyone else had already gone inside again.

"I see, you found yourself an admirer," Violet mocked her.

"He just came to say hello," Isobel returned snappily.

"He looked more like someone who had finally found the woman of his dreams and ended with a bucket of cold water over his head."

"And what did you tell that? Did you hide behind the curtains to watch us?"

"No, I was sitting next to Lady Merton while she observed the two of you. If she saw what I saw, I can promise you, she'll watch her husband like a hawk from now on."

Isobel had enough. "Don't be ridiculous. We just talked about the wedding!"

Her patience was running out. Violet was testing her beyond measure and she didn't know how to shuffle herself out of the situation without losing her composure.

"Very well then. I hope your sake that Lady Merton believes the same. She may be a nasty woman, but she's neither blind nor stupid. On the contrary."

"I really don't care about Lady Merton and what she thinks."

"You better start caring, because she's the kind of wife who won't mind, if her husband finds solace in another woman's bed, but she will mind, if he's foolish enough to look for it right under her nose."

"I don't have the intention of offering solace or anything else to him," Isobel spat, wondering, if she could keep that promise.

* * *

_Bretagne, 1918_

He recognized Theodore Pommeroy the second he saw him. The man was older and bed-stricken due to some heavy injuries, but he was without a doubt the person he had been looking for. What had definitely changed over the years was the man's smug attitude. The last time he had seen Pommery, he had thrown him rather unceremoniously out of his house, which hadn't made a real impression on him. Today Pommeroy looked fragile, even scared in the less than charming surroundings. The hospital ward was packed with injured soldiers. The smell was abhorrent and the noise was an orchestra made of pain and despair. It all reminded him of the war he had fought so many years ago. The sound and the smell of war were the same. Apparently it didn't matter where a war was fought and how modern the equipment was.

All those years ago, he had told Pommeroy to go away as far as possible, but today he knew Pommeroy had never stayed away for too long. None of this mattered anymore, as long as he got back what Pommeroy had stolen from his family.

While he stared down on the injured man, he wondered how he would tell his companion about his less than altruistic motives for his search. Knowing her she wouldn't be pleased, but perhaps she would find it in her heart to understand him, if he confided in her about his motives. And if not, at least one of them would feel less heartbroken once they had to part again.

She had stayed near the entrance to allow him to talk to Pommeroy in private. He looked over his shoulder and saw her talking to the head nurse.

"Can I talk to him?" he asked the nurse who had shown them to Pommeroy.

"Of course, but he's very weak and properly won't recognise you anyway," she answered and went to the man's bedside. She gently shook his shoulder.

"I know," he said. "The doctor thinks, he's got amnesia."

Slowly, the man opened his eyes.

"You have a visitor," the nurse said, causing Pommeroy to look up, suddenly awake and frightened. He narrowed his eyes as he focused on his visitor and pushed himself up. The question whether Pommeroy knew him or not was answered, before the man even opened his mouth. He saw in Pommeroys' eyes that he recognized him and he seemed too tired of life to pull off his faked amnesia routine.

"Are you here because of Ada?" he asked hoarsely. "Or are you here to end me?"

* * *

He found her outside the hospital where she was helping a soldier back inside his wheelchair. The man had lost a leg and apparently his attempt to use crutches had been less than successful. The mud on the man's face and uniform proved that. Another nurse took over from Isobel and wheeled the man back inside the hospital.

She gave him a smile when she saw him. "So, has our mission been successful?" she asked as he reached her.

"It has. It's him, but he hasn't got amnesia," he explained. "He's hiding from the law."

She swallowed, "He told you that just like that?"

He smiled without humour. "He didn't have to tell me…. I have to tell you something. I'm afraid I haven't been completely honest with you."

Her face became pale. "I don't understand you."

"Let's leave this place." He took her elbow and let her back to the car. "I'll tell you everything you need to know, but not with the driver or anyone else around."

"Does that mean Mister Pommeroy will stay here?" she asked, still completely puzzled.

"Since he prefers it to facing prison in England for heavy theft, yes. I offered him a passage to London, but he's convinced he would be dead before he arrives."

"So, it was all for nothing?" He opened the door of the car for her and she climbed in.

"No, not quite." He reached inside his pocket and showed her a small key. "It's from Pommeroy. It's the key to a safe deposit box in a bank in Paris."

"Paris?" He had never seen her this bewildered and it amused him. He settled down next to her and gave her the key. She looked at it with growing curiosity. Perhaps his time with her wasn't as limited as he thought it would be.

"Yes, Paris. Do you want to come with me?" he asked her, leaving her speechless.

*********tbc*********


	4. Letters

**Here we go with Chapter 4. Enjoy :-) **

**Chapter 4 - Letters**

"_There's an element of timelessness about letter writing" ~ Lois Wyse _

_Downton, 1920_

The wedding was finally over. Mary and Matthew had left for their honeymoon and she was alone. All on her own in Crawley House. Ready for bed and unable to sleep, she was sitting at her dressing table in front of her open jewellery box. Always modest in her taste she didn't own many valuable pieces and therefore the contents of the box was tasteful but limited. Reginald, as kind and generous as he had been, had never cared for jewellery and neither did she.

There was one pair of earrings though that didn't fit the description modest at all. Hidden in a small velvet bag, she had never worn them and she avoided taking them to have a look at them. They reminded her about a man who wasn't Reginald, about the war, about a stolen time full of passion and adventure.

The eardrops didn't quite match her wardrobe and she also didn't want Matthew to notice them. She feared he would ask who had given them to her. He knew his father well enough to know they had never been a present from him and she didn't want to lie to her son. She wasn't a good liar and she knew it. The previous afternoon had proved how bad she was in hiding her feelings and that she only ended up hurting others when she tried to cover them up.

She opened the small bag and a pair of golden sapphire drop earrings slid into her hand. The stones were just as breathtaking as she remembered them.

"They perfectly match your eyes," he had said back then in Paris. She swallowed when she remembered how he had closed her hand around them the night he had given them to her. "I want you to have them. I won't take no for an answer."

Her hands trembled when she put on the earrings and watched her own reflection. She was not very vain, but she knew something beautiful when she saw it, and she had to admit the earrings suited her. They indeed matched her eyes. With a sad sigh she removed them and put them back into the bag.

She would probably regret her next move, but she knew what she had to do next.

Downstairs in the drawing room she switched on the lights and sat down at her desk. It took her several minutes before she knew how she wanted to start her letter to him.

_"Dear Richard,_

_Or should I go over to start calling you Dickie, since everyone else seemed to do so?..."_

* * *

_Bretagne, 1918_

_"Sincerely yours…"_

He finished his letter and did his best to ignore the pain in his injured hand. He had tried to keep his letter as short as possible, but his hand was still hurting from the exercise. He put the pen aside and folded the letter. It would take some time for the letter to reach its destination, but as things were he didn't care, if his wife learnt about Pommeroy's fate sooner or later. The only really important thing was that he would find the contents of the safe deposit box as soon as possible - preferable before anyone else opened it.

He looked at the back of his hand. To write the letter he had had to remove the bandage and now his hand was swollen. Where the machete had hit him the scar was pulsating with pain. He groaned in agony and annoyance.

Behind him he heard her stirring in bed. He turned and saw she was still asleep. The sight of her being in his bed made him smile and let him forget about his physical pain. She slept on her stomach, embracing her pillow. Her hair was open and fell softly over her naked shoulder. He noticed how cold the room had become and took the second blanket from the end of the bed and placed it gently over her. Not for the first time he wondered how he deserved her.

She had accepted his explanation about his search of Pommeroy with the expected irritation about his former lies. So far she hadn't agreed to go with him to Paris, but he was confident she would come around. He still hadn't confided completely in her about Pommeroy and he had come to the decision that he didn't want to. Somehow it seemed wrong to bother her with the aspects of his dreadful marriage. He would stick by his story about Pommeroy being his sister's former lover and that was it. Pommeroy had caused him to many embarrassments over the years. The fact that the dreadful fellow had also stolen valuable pieces of jewellery that had once belonged to his beloved mother only made things worse than they already were.

He had never cared so much about his wife having a lover, but he cared for the fact that she had cheated on him under his own roof with a man who was nothing but an ordinary thief. He had only helped Ada to cover up her affair, because she feared her sons would look down on her if they found out. The other reason was, of course, that he didn't want his inability to lead a good marriage reflect badly on his family and his estate. He owed this much to his parents and his dead brother.

Again she moved in her sleep and rolled on her back. Her eyes flickered open and she was clearly confused about her whereabouts.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Late," he answered gently. "Go back to sleep."

"Why aren't you sleeping then?" she asked, as lifted herself up and inspected the second blanket.

"I had to write a letter," he answered. "And I have to admit it took longer than I expected."

"With this hand of yours?" she asked, now fully awake. Swiftly she slipped out of bed and grabbed his shirt from the rest of the chair. After she had buttoned it up, she took a closer look at his wound.

"You should show it to a doctor," she said worried. "The way it looks it could easily get infected."

He saw the concern in her eyes, but shook his head. "I just overdid it today, that's it."

"Promise me to show it to a doctor tomorrow," she insisted. Her fear for his health made his heart swell. He kissed her forehead and said, "If me consulting a doctor calms you, I'll do it."

"I mean it."

"How about an agreement?" he asked. "I'll go to see a doctor you promise me to come with me to Paris to look after me? I think it's obvious I need supervision."

She pulled back and gave him a look. "That's called moral blackmail."

"The diplomat in me tells you, it's an agreement," he teased her. "And a good one at that."

"I can't believe, you ask me to follow you into the great unknown."

"Aren't you interested in a little adventure?" He wrapped his healthy arm around her waist and pulled her against him. He kissed her hungrily and she returned his kiss equal passion and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I'm afraid I'm much duller than you seem to think I am," she said, once the kiss was over and she leaned her forehead against his. Her statement made him chuckle. "A woman who kisses like this, is hardly dull. Think about it…. Just for a few days. I'm sure they will give you some days off, if someone takes over for you."

"All right… I'll talk to my cousin. I'm sure, she can arrange something."

"How marvellous!" He kissed her again and this time she broke the kiss. "Let's get that bandage around your hand again."

"No." Determined to keep her close to him, he pulled her with him to the bed. "Not tonight."

"But…." His mouth covering hers cut her off. With a sigh she gave in, kissed him back and ran her hands through his hair as his lips started a journey that led slowly over her face and down her chin.

"Tonight I want to feel you," he mumbled against her skin as his lips caressed her neck. His hand moved slowly under her shirt and caressed her skin. As lightly as the muscles in his hand allowed it he let his finger tips travel across her belly up to her breasts. She shivered and her staccato breath encouraged him to continue his soft ministrations.

"Do you still want to apply the stupid bandage?" he whispered into her ear.

"Maybe later…"

* * *

_South Africa, 1880_

She had read the letter with a lump in her throat. The lines she was reading over and over again were taking her breath away and made her head spin. Exhausted she leaned against the wall near the entrance to the hospital and closed her eyes. The linen basket felt too heavy and so she had put it down to her feet. She heard busy steps from the inside of the hospital, heard nurses and doctors shouting, but she needed a moment for herself. Only a short moment to understand what was happening to her.

So, this was it how it felt when a heart broke, she thought bitterly. It simply takes your breath away and tears you apart.

The feeling wasn't as poetic as the writers used to describe it. On the contrary. It was nothing but painful and there was no glory in it. Dying was probably more merciful and she had seen a lot of people die during the last couple of weeks.

She could already hear her mother telling her that she got what she deserved. Before she had left Manchester to train as a nurse in a country on the other side of the world, her mother had tried to convince her to give up on her plans. She thought a war wasn't a suitable place for a young woman of considerable good breeding and had tried to lure Isobel with flattery and a new wardrobe to convince her to stay in England. When her mother's strategy hadn't worked out, she had brought in the big guns. The older woman had openly told her that the hard work would make her unattractive for a certain young and talented doctor who was searching for a suitable bride. How right she had been! Isobel had arrived in South Africa only three weeks ago and today she had received the letter that most probably ended her promising liaison with the man she had fallen in love with from the first moment she had laid her eyes in him.

Far away cannons roared even though the sun was setting. But it wouldn't take long before more wounded arrived at the hospital. She needed to come back to her senses quickly, because those men needed her full attention. She could nurture her broken heart later on.

Determined she crammed the crumbled pages into the hidden pockets of her skirt. With her hands she wiped away her tears and drew a couple of deep breaths. Her heartbeat slowed down as the air filled her lungs. The words in the letter still echoed in her head though.

_"Dear Isobel,_

_I wish there was a less painful way of telling you this, but last night I saw Reginald Crawley with another woman dining out in a restaurant. I was told, the woman was the twin sister of his best friend, Alexander Ferguson who is an aspiring doctor himself. Her name is Emma and she's very beautiful. Reginald's mother has been encouraging a possible marriage between them for years and from what I heard, it seems possible, the two of them will announce their engagement in a few weeks…."_

What her mother didn't know was that Reginald was already engaged. One week before she had boarded her passage to Africa he had proposed to her and she had accepted. How was it possible that he had been seen with someone else and why on earth would there be talk about him getting engaged to another woman? He wouldn't hurt her like that. He had told her, he loved her. She wore his ring on a chain around her neck, as a reminder of their engagement. They had made love before she had left for South Africa…. Surely he wouldn't have seduced her, if he planned to replace her as soon as she left England….

A new wave of tears ran over her face. What if it was true? What if he wanted to marry someone else while she was now nothing more than damaged goods for him and also every other man?

"Excuse me?"

She startled and a small scream escaped her lips. A young uniformed man was standing next to her. He was perhaps the tallest man she had ever seen. He gave her a warm smile.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to disturb you. I just thought you might need this…"

He gave her a handkerchief. She was speechless and couldn't think straight.

"Thank you…." She took the handkerchief. It was made of silk and in a corner she saw the initials 'R.G.'

"Oh, I couldn't… that's silk," she managed to say as she gave it back to him.

"When I look at your tears, I doubt the handkerchief will do them justice," he said. She hesitated, but the friendly expression on his face convinced her to take it back.

"I'm not so sure about that, but…. Thank you." She dried the tears and blew her nose.

"Never mind. I have to go inside now. I was told my brother is being treated here."

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Major Francis Grey."

"Why don't you come with me?" she offered and picked up her basket. "I think I know where you can find him, but he's been badly injured, I'm afraid."

A shadow crossed his face. "So, I've heard. I hoped to find out I was misinformed."

"I'm afraid not," she said, feeling sorry for him.

"Please, take me to him." He opened the door for her and followed her inside the hospital.

*********tbc*********


	5. Secrets

I was really overwhelmed by your kind reviews for the last chapter. As always when I think there's nothing special about something I wrote, people seem to like it... Anyway, thanks again and now enjoy the next installment!

**Chapter 5 - Secrets **

"_A good friend keeps your secrets for you. A best friend helps you keep your own secrets." - Lauren Oliver _

_London, 1920_

Isobel and Dickie met in St. James' Park one week after the wedding had taken place. It was a sunny day and the park was crowded with people who enjoyed the sunny spells. Isobel was sitting on a bench and observed a couple of ducks taking diver after dive in a big pond. She had arrived half an hour early, way too early as she well knew, but she couldn't help it. Being there first allowed her to mentally prepare herself. She had envisioned their upcoming conversation about a thousand times. She knew what she needed to say and what had to be done. It was simple, but so difficult to go through with.

He arrived early, too. She tried not to smile, but failed.

"I feel like a spy, waiting for an informer," she said, unable to hide her amusement.

"As far as I know dead drops fall never out of vogue," he answered and settled down next to her.

"As a former attaché you must know that."

"You were the one asking for a discreet meeting," he reminded her. "Well, here I am and I'm glad it's not raining. London in the rain is a dreadful experience."

She chuckled. "I know."

"I'm glad you came though. Our last conversation wasn't exactly successful. I'm sorry, if I made you uncomfortable."

For the first time, since he had sat down next to her she turned her head to look at his profile. She could tell his words were betraying his uneasiness. As light-hearted as he sounded, he was just as nervous as she was.

"It was my fault," she said, looking at the ducks again. "I was unkind."

He drew a deep breath. "If it's any consolation, I was shocked to see you as well. I never expected to see you again. At least not at the same table in a country house in rural Yorkshire."

"No, it's a little mad, isn't it?" she asked. "Matthew and I have been living in Downton for almost eight years and we've never met before."

He shrugged, "Well, after the children grew older and the war started, our families grew apart. Ada and Lady Grantham have never been close and Robert and I often meet in the club when we're here in London. I was glad when we got invited for Mary's wedding. I'd hoped it was some kind a thaw between our families."

"I guess, me being who I am, is destined to spoil this for you," she said.

She felt him moving next to her, felt his eyes on her, and decided to ignore it as long as possible. "I'm afraid I can't follow you."

"Oh please," she said, afraid the unpleasant part of their meeting was about to start. "Don't be so…. naive."

"Well, I'm sometimes told I am."

"Then let me unmistakable clear," she cleared her throat. "I refuse to sit at Lord Grantham's table with you being on the opposite side and your wife two places next to me."

Silence fell between them. For a moment, she feared, hoped, he would rose and leave. Then he chuckled amused.

"What's so funny?" she asked, annoyed that he found a reason to laugh while she struggled to keep up an upright facade.

"If you find it that uncomfortable to share a table with me, we should work on it. Have dinner with me tonight."

She gasped. "I won't have dinner with you. Not ever again."

"Never is strong word," he replied. "And if my memory serves me right, the last time you promised me 'never again', you failed to keep that promise."

"When was that?" she asked, annoyed he brought up something she couldn't remember and therefore probably not rebut.

"When we first met, you told me you never wanted to return to this renegade fiancé of yours. I think it's obvious you did. You gave him a son who is destined to become the next Earl of Grantham."

"Reginald wasn't renegade," she answered with a hint of sadness in her voice. "It was much more complicated than that. Actually, much more complicated than I anticipated at my age."

"I never doubted it," he said. "It's always much more complicated than we want to admit and that's why I want you to have dinner with me."

"To make it even more complicated?" she scoffed.

"It never bothered you I was married." The sentence hit her like a slap. As if he sensed her reaction, he added, "I think we both knew, neither of us was really free to do what we did. Not in Africa and not in France."

"I wasn't sure," she admitted. "But in a way, you're right. I sensed there was someone. But now we are home and the war is over. The rules of war differ from those of the real world."

"I know men who would tell you, only war is the real life."

"How sad they must be."

"Indeed."

"But this isn't so much about your wife," she continued. "It's about Matthew."

"I see," he said after almost one minute of silence.

"He wouldn't understand. He's a good man, but he wouldn't understand and I don't want to lose him. He's all I've got and I almost lost him once during the war," she explained. She felt how her throat tightened and hated that she was justifying herself instead of doing what was right - at least from the moral point of view.

"How about this?" he suggested. "Have dinner with me tonight and I won't bother you again. For old times sake."

The idea to spent another evening with him was tempting. She had always enjoyed his company. He was a delightful conversation partner. He was well-read, educated, and had a lot of interests that matched her own. It scared her where falling back into their into old habits could lead them.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Why? I promise I won't pester you."

"I never thought you would." She hated his persistence and that he always forced her to phrase her doubts directly. It wasn't the first time, she had to give in, because she felt her explanation would only give away her weaknesses.

"Where do you stay? Grantham House? I'll tell Ruggles to pick you up at eight sharp."

"Ruggles?" she asked surprised and glad, he gave her a reason to distract from his invitation. She had the sudden feeling that someone was watching them. She quickly looked over her shoulder. Perhaps Lucian Ruggles was watching them from afar. He was by far the most unpredictable and inscrutable person she had ever met - and knowing someone like the Dowager the description meant something. But no one was there.

"Don't worry, he's not here," he said. "But he accompanied me to London. I gave him the afternoon off. I guess he's in the National Gallery. He loves being there."

Feeling it was time to escape their conversation, she rose and he followed her down the path down the park.

"How is he?" she asked.

"As he always is," he answered.

"Hopelessly devoted," she concluded with a smile.

"He looks forward to seeing you again. I wouldn't know what hit me, if I came home to tell him, I let you slip the hook. He adores the ground you walk on."

"Stop flattering me. It's not working," she said.

"I think it does. So, where do you stay? He'll pick you up and deliver you safely back home. I take it you know you can trust him with your safety. Perhaps more than me."

"I do trust him," Isobel confirmed, leaving the second part of his statement unanswered.

* * *

About ten meters behind Isobel and Dickie a man with a walking stick that he didn't need and only used just to underline his formidable appearance, followed them. It was Sir Alexander Ferguson, who had immediately recognized Isobel and the man she was walking next to. He had already overlooked them talking at the wedding. There was an awkward tension about them that aroused his curiosity. If he remembered correctly the man was Mary's godfather and a friend of the Earl of Grantham. How peculiar that the two of them meet up accidentally in London just one week after the wedding. How very peculiar… He followed the two of them until their ways parted at Horse Guards Parade, where she turned left towards the Mall, while he headed towards a motorcar that waited for him. There was nothing incriminating about two people having a walk in the park and a conversation, but there was something odd about this couple and Ferguson decided he wanted to know exactly how _odd_ it was. He smelled Isobel harboured a secret and as always when it came to her, he longed to uncover it.

* * *

_Paris, 1918 _

"You'll meet a friend of mine tonight," he announced when she left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. She looked up in surprise and their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror.

"Oh… who?"

"Ruggles… Lucian Ruggles. After we went to see Pommeroy I sent him a telegram and asked him to join us. His note reached me this afternoon. He's arrived today and will meet us later." He smiled at her, while she was unable to hide her astonishment.

"I see…."

"He's someone who will be very useful," he explained. "We can trust him."

She shrugged and went to him to help him with the bowtie. His hand was much better after he had taken her advice to consult the doctor one more time, but it was still painful to use it for delicate tasks that demanded fine motor skills.

"If you say so… And who is he?"

"I met him during the South African War. The second one," he added.

"Comrades in arms?" she asked. He smiled when he saw how concentrated she looked while her fingers worked on his tie.

"Something like that. He's one of the best man I know, there's just one thing, you have to know about him."

"I'm all ears," she said as she finished his bowtie and smiled pleased with work.

"He's mute, not deaf though. He's been like this since the war. He just stopped talking after his return from South Africa."

"That was a long time ago," she stated affected. "And he works for you?"

"Something like that."

"You've said that before… Another mysterious creature in your life. And I thought Mister Pommeroy was a strange fellow. Apparently silent waters like you really run deep," she joked.

"Please, do trust me. Pommeroy was a thief while I would entrust Ruggles with my life."

He knew he was again quite secretive, but he knew Ruggles would prefer it - at least as long as he didn't know her. Like so often she accepted his answer with a shrug, as if she forced herself not to ask any more questions… as if she reminded herself about their rules.

"Where will he stay?" she asked instead and looked around the bedroom of the small apartment. He understood her worry and quickly assured her, "He won't stay here, don't worry. He's already found a place. You'll see he's very resourceful."

The apartment was small and belonged to a friend of her cousin who was working as a nurse in a military hospital in Le Havré. At first he had wanted to move into a hotel, but he had quickly realized her idea was better. An apartment offered more privacy and no one could find out where they were. He wasn't entirely convinced Pommeroy had been honest with him, which was one of the reasons he had asked Ruggles to come to Paris. Men like Pommeroy had friends, unpleasant fellows he didn't want her to meet.

"Do you really think we need reinforcement?" she asked, now unmistakably worried.

"Let's say I want someone around who has two healthy hands." He grabbed her by the waist. "But don't you worry. I'll defend you with my life."

"I have no doubt about that," she returned and chuckled. He kissed her and then he leaned back to have a look at her. She had changed into a simple, but very alluring blue dress.

"You look wonderful," he complimented her.

She scoffed, "I doubt the French will agree with you, but when I packed my suitcases to serve the Red Cross, I didn't expect to spend my days and nights with a dashing gentleman who kidnaps me to Paris."

"And I thought, you were prepared for everything," he mused teasingly.

"Oh, I am prepared for a lot of things." she replied and this time she was kissing him. "But not all of them involve an expensive wardrobe. And now, let's go. I'm curious about your Mister Ruggles."

He laughed and said, "Please, just call him Ruggles or he'll think you talk to his father."

* * *

_South Africa, 1880 _

Major Francis Grey died on Christmas Eve and Isobel held his hand when he drew his last breath. It happened on her night shift, which was unusually quiet. It wasn't the first time she had seen someone die, but the death of this young man affected her deeply. His end didn't come as a surprise, but that didn't diminish the sadness over it. His injuries had been too heavy and he had lost too much blood, yet she found herself crying for him. He had been a kind man who loved to flirt with her even though the pain in his chest made it hard for him to breathe.

With tired legs she rose from the low stool and informed the doctor. Then she took one look around the ward. Two other nurses were there and she decided to take a quick break to get some air.

She saw him leaning against the wall, where she leaned only two days ago. She had been crying her heart out and while he wasn't crying she could tell he already knew his brother was dead. To her he looked like someone who carried the world on his shoulders and the youthfulness that had sparked from him the first time she had met him, was gone. He stood there in the darkness and his arms were crossed over his chest.

He looked up when he heard her steps. As soon as he recognized her, he straightened his back and disposed the cigarette he was smoking.

"Don't…," she said. "I'm hardly a general."

He countered her little joke with a smile, but said nothing.

"He was at peace when he died," she said gently. "He didn't feel any pain."

He sighed and swallowed. "I had this strange feeling when I went to bed and decided to come back here… You were with him?" he asked.

She just nodded and he gave her a small smile. "He liked you," he said. "I'm glad it was you who was by his side."

"I liked him too. He was very kind - and funny."

"Yes, he was." He sighed and walked over to her. "Do you have siblings?"

"Yes, I have two older brothers," she said. "I'm the youngest and the only girl."

"I hope they spoilt you to death."

She chuckled. "I'm afraid they robbed me off my faith in Santa and cut my pigtails."

He acknowledged her anecdote with a knowing and sad smile. "I guess that's what older siblings are there for. To prepare us for the world where our parents fail to do so."

"I think they are." She watched him closely and suddenly she felt the wish to run her hands through his hair, just to comfort him and instantly thought how foolish she was. Then she remembered something else. Quickly she reached inside the pocket under her apron.

"Your handkerchief," she said. She had washed and ironed it and had hoped she could return it under very different and happier circumstances.

He shook his head when she wanted to give it to him. "No, please, keep it."

"But it's yours…." She looked at the initials R.G.. "I carries your name, that I don't even know," she added.

"Do you promise to keep it when I tell you my name? Not that I hope you'll need it again any time soon… I like to think a beautiful woman who stayed with my brother till the very end has it in her possession."

She felt how she blushed, quickly she cleared her throat. "I guess…. I can keep it, if you tell me your name."

"It's Richard, though many people call me…."

"Nurse Turnbull!"

Isobel startled when she heard the sharp voice of her head nurse behind her. She had lost the track of time and now she was going to be reprimanded until she didn't know what hit her.

"It was my fault!" he quickly jumped to her defence. "I kept her outside, because I wanted to know more about my brother's death."

"Thank you," she mouthed into his direction before she turned on her heels and rushed inside. The head nurse accepted his explanation with a nod, but gave Isobel a dismissive look when she rushed past her.

She didn't know why, but Isobel had the lingering feeling she hadn't heard or seen the last of Major Grey's little brother.

*********tbc**********


	6. Watershed

**Chapter 6 - Watershed **

"_Every life has a watershed moment, an instant when you realize you're about to make a choice that will define everything else you ever do…" Mira Grant _

_South Africa, 1880 _

When Isobel finished her shift the next day during the afternoon, he waited for her at the entrance. Just like the night before, he stood near the door in the shadow. It was a hot afternoon and no Englishman in his right mind was outside. But he was and she had to admit she was flattered by his gesture. Even when she wasn't sure what it meant, it was like a soft breeze that cooled her wounded heart.

"Miss Turnbull…." he greeted her, tipping against his hat.

"Hello….," she gave him a smile. "Don't tell me, you waited for me!"

"How can you ask? Of course I did!"

He walked over to her and offered her his arm. "I was a little worried after last night. I hope the head nurse didn't sentence you to extra work or even worse?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I was lucky, but she keeps watching me like a hawk. In fact she has since I suggested to rearrange the linen in the cupboards. She thinks I'm too forward."

He chuckled. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. She's one of these old spinsters who don't like young people."

She placed her hand on his arm and together they strolled away from the hospital, away from the head nurse, away from death and destruction.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked after a minute of comfortable silence.

"I'm not sure to be honest. I've send a telegram to my parents. I suggested we bury my brother here instead of bringing him home. There's a lovely church with a graveyard not far from here. I think he would like being there. Francis loved Africa. He always wanted to live here, but my mother went riot every time he mentioned it. Perhaps it's time to grant his wish."

"What do you think your parents will say?" she asked, wondering how she would feel walking in their shoes. With a child buried far away from her, while she was alive. She couldn't and before the thought could make her sad, she blocked the whole idea.

"I can not speak for them, but I think they'll agree with me."

While they spoke he had led her to the inner part of the town where small restaurants and lovely cafés were located. It was a place where the war didn't have a place yet. The British occupiers came here to get away from the horrors of the front. Sometimes she wondered how long that would be the case. The news from the frontline worsened day by day.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"How about some tea?" he asked. "I bet you didn't have a proper break."

"I didn't," she admitted. "But shouldn't I change first?" She looked down on herself. She was anything but presentable. Her blouse was soaked with sweat and there was a stain on her skirt that she had only noticed when she had changed before she left the hospital.

He didn't seem to mind. "You can change after we had tea and before I take you for dinner."

She gasped and for a heartbeat she was speechless. He had said it with a nonchalance that she wasn't used to. It was obvious where this was leading to and she wanted, no needed, to put a stop to it. Her life was already complicated enough. She cleared her throat and said, "I'm engaged, Captain Grey…"

His answer came promptly. "Me too." He established eye contact with her and stepped closer, making sure no passing pedestrians could overhear them.

"I guess that says it all," she said as earnestly as possible. His nearness made her head spin and she felt a little like stumbling toward an abyss. One wrong move and she would fall.

"Well, I don't think so. Unless, of course, your tears were meant for someone or something else and you have no doubts about your fiancé. Do you have doubts?"

"I don't see what me crying or not crying over my finacé changes about my engagement to him." Her doubts, her rising doubts and her fear about being abandoned by Reginald for another woman were nothing she wanted to discuss with him or anyone else Right now she couldn't even name what exactly she wanted from him, but it didn't involve anything about the life she had led thousands of miles away.

"That's not quite what I asked," he said. "Is he worth your tears?"

She swallowed. The truth was she didn't know what she meant to Reginald, if he waited for her or if he used her for his amusement. It hurt deeply to admit that much to herself and to prevent herself from crying she decided to ask him a question, "Would you be worthy of them?"

"I shall hope so…. But I can't make any promises," he answered. "Will you give me a chance to try?"

"Over dinner?"

"Over dinner."

"What about your fiancée?"

He smiled a strange, unhappy smile, "She doesn't think I'm worthy of her tears."

"That's rather harsh."

He shrugged, "It's the truth."

"Let's make a promise then…" she licked her lips. She was about to make a stupid move, but it was what she wanted, what she needed to feel less worthless and alone.

"Anything you wish for."

"Whatever happens, no more talk about our betrothed." She took his hand into hers and squeezed it.

He nodded after a short hesitation. "That's an easy rule to remember."

"And now we can have tea…," she said with a coy smile. He returned the smile and placed a kiss on her hand. "Your wish is my command."

* * *

_London, 1920_

Ruggles looked exactly as Isobel remembered him. In fact he hadn't changed at all. His small, bald-headed figure was still as ordinary as his eyes were extraordinary awake. Just like in Paris they permanently scanned every little detail of his environment. Ruggles aside she had never met a person who didn't blink. He had the skill of staring people down and on their way to Merton House she wondered, if perhaps Ruggles was the one who could bring down the Dowager in a battle of wills.

He still didn't talk, but he was perfectly able to communicate with his eyes and his face. She could tell, he was happy to see her when he picked her up in front of her hotel. She still congratulated herself on her move to decline Robert's offer to ask Rosamund to give her shelter. Isobel was glad to be on her own. She had always hated to give account for her plans to anyone. After she had so recklessly accepted Lord Merton's invitation to dinner, it was for the best that there was no one she had to answer to.

Her heart raced in her chest now that she was sitting in the fond of the car. She couldn't keep her hands still and constantly toyed with her gloves. It was indeed reckless, reckless and stupid to go to his house to have dinner with him. Of course going into a restaurant with a married man would have been even less sensible, but the privacy of a house could weaken her intentions. She had meant it when she had told him, she didn't want to reinstall their former relationship. It was ridiculous to consider such a thing, but she feared her walls could tumble, if she spend time with him.

Neither in Africa nor in France she had really thought twice about going to bed with him. Back then the ongoing wars had made their lives much easier. The had made the most of the time they had together, no strings, no attachments. For a few weeks, caught in the brutality of what people could do to each other, they had been lovers who knew they had to part again.

The prospect she was facing now, sitting in his car, driven by his factotum, was very different. As their lives were shaped out now they would run into each other every now and then. He was married, and as ghastly as his relationship with Lady Merton might was, nothing would change about it any time soon. Resuming their liaison would be a well of endless heartbreak and ugly arguments. Affairs like that never stayed a secret. Soon the family and after that the village would know. Perhaps she could live with the hate from the village, but she couldn't picture Matthew tolerating her having a relationship with a married man. His moral compass was too strong and she hated to imagine what he would think of her, if she became someone's mistress.

Why, oh why did she agree to have dinner with him? She was about to tell Ruggles to take her back to her hotel, but the car stopped in front of a noble town house in the heart of Belgravia.

"I'm not sure, this is a wise idea, Ruggles," she said when she took the hand he offered to help her out of the car. He acknowledged her statement with an encouraging smile and unlocked the front door of Merton House.

"Don't tell me, there's no one else around aside from his Lordship, you, and me…," she said while he led her inside. There was no time for her to admire the decor of the grand-sized foyer, because Dickie was already rushing downstairs to greet her.

"There you are!"

"It seems I am," she agreed with a shrug and tried not to admire his perfect evening attire. Against her better judgment she had made quite an effort of her wardrobe herself. Her turquoise colored dress was made of silk and she had bought the this afternoon after their ways had parted in St. James Park.

"I wasn't sure you would come," he admitted with a coy smile.

"Me neither, until Ruggles opened the door." She startled when said man touched her shoulder to help her taking off her coat.

"Would you fancy a drink before dinner?"

"Why not?"

At first she hesitated, looked around and then she followed him a small salon at the end of the foyer.

"What can I give you? Brandy? I found a superb one last year in Spain."

"Yes, please… Is there anyone else here tonight?" she asked, when she strolled across the room.

"There's, of course, a cook and a housemaid, but I gave her the night off. When I'm on my own I usually only have Ruggles here."

"I see…"

While he was busy preparing their drinks, she took a closer look at a couple of old framed photographs on the mantelpiece. One picture aroused her curiosity and so she took it into her hands. It showed two young soldiers in uniform. Dickie and his late brother Francis.

"It's been forty years," he said as he approached her and recognized the photo.

"I know." She put the photograph back and took the glass.

"To life," he said, his eyes still resting on the photo.

"To life," she repeated. "So, you were the spare while Francis was the heir?"

"Yes, that's why I sought a career in the diplomatic. My original interest was medicine, but my father didn't find it very suitable."

"I see... " She moved away from him and walked over to the window.

"I'm not really cut out for a life as a country man," he said, regret clouding his voice. "It annoys me. The endless hunting, the dinner parties… it's an endless routine of sameness."

"And what am I? The welcome distraction between a hunting lunch and the next house party?" It sounded as snippy as intended. She finished her brandy and gave him a provocative glance.

At first he looked, as if she had slapped him, then amusement broadened on his face. "I have to admit with you I've never been short of entertainment."

She was glad he was standing a few meters away from him, because she felt the blood rushing into her cheeks.

"I'm serious," he said as he closed the distance between them. "I've always enjoyed your company. And I think you enjoyed mine."

"I did…. I mean, I agree we…" she broke off. "It was a bad idea to come."

"Why?"

"The same reasons I told you this afternoon. A relationship like ours has no place in this world."

He chuckled, "Who's being naive now? After all this time among the Granthams you should know the rules of the English upper class."

"I'm not naive," she replied.

"So, why don't enjoy our evening?"

She looked at him, saw the friendliness in his eyes that was almost boyish. It reminded her of the young soldier she had met in Africa. This young men who had been so tender and passionate. The man who had been grieving his brother and, as she knew today, the life he had been denied by fate.

"Oh, I guess, we can enjoy our evening."

Someone entered the room. It was Ruggles and Dickie turned around. "Dinner's ready?"

Ruggles made a solemn bow and left the room again.

"You're the only man I know who would hire a mute servant," she said.

"I think you would do the same," he said, as they walked towards the door. "Ruggles's more than a servant and he isn't modest enough to think otherwise."

Isobel laughed. "I think you could be right about that."

* * *

_South Africa 1880_

It was after midnight when he finally took her home. Isobel was sure she would regret being out for so long, because she was assigned for the early shift that started at six in the morning.

"There we are," she said, as they stopped in front of the small house where most of the nurses were lodged.

"It was a wonderful evening," he said. "Thank you."

"I enjoyed myself as well," she agreed. She only had one glass of wine, but her head was spinning and she felt light. It was too dark to see the look in his eyes, but she felt bold enough to imagine he felt as elated as she did. She rose to her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his mouth. At first he was surprised, but then he grabbed her elbow and pulled her closer.

"I think that's what people call the infamous elephant in the room," he said, as they parted.

"I think so." She chuckled embarrassed.

"When can I pick you up tomorrow?" he asked.

"Same time as today…," she suggested.

"I'll be there," he promised and kissed her again. This time he was bolder and his hunger for took her breath away. His way of kissing was so different from the way Reginald had kissed her. Or perhaps she just remembered it differently…. Softer, yet more heated. She felt heat spreading from her core all over body, a tingling ran up her spine. His hand held the back of her neck, pressed her closer against him, and she felt how he grew hard against her. It was a sensation that embarrassed and excited her at the same time.

"I… I have a roommate," she mumbled against his mouth.

"Shhh," he hushed her and kissed her again. "I'll better go now…" he said. "Because I don't have a roommate and I don't think…."

"Tomorrow afternoon." She kissed him once more.

"Tomorrow afternoon," he said and drew a deep breath. He withdrew and waited until she had vanished inside the house, before he left.

********tbc********

**Happy Sunday, you all ;-) **


	7. Abyss

**Chapter 7 - Abyss **

"_We all have one foot in a fairytale, and the other in the abyss." P. Coelho _

_London, 1920_

After dinner Isobel and Dickie took their coffee in the salon. Ruggles discreetly left the room after he had placed the tray on a small table, leaving them alone again. The dinner had been pleasant, less nerve wrecking than she had expected it to be. He still was the perfect gentleman, always eager to make her feel comfortable. Still, she wondered where this was going to lead them, or to be more precise, where he thought the evening was leading them. She didn't want to think anything further, didn't even want to think about the possibilities.

"May I?" Isobel asked, suggesting to pour the coffee for them.

"Be my guest," he said with an amused smile.

While she busied herself with the coffee and the porcelain, he said, "There's one thing I haven't quite understood. I think, perhaps it's time we talked about it."

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously.

"Back then in France… was he still alive?"

With an empty cup and the coffee pot in her hands, she turned around. Was he talking about Reginald? "I'm afraid, I can't follow you…"

"Doctor Crawley… your husband. Was he still alive?"

"No," she answered and finished pouring a cup for him. "He died over ten years ago."

"I see." He acknowledged her statement with a crooked eyebrow.

"Why do you ask?"

He drew a deep breath. "I was curious. I've always wondered, what happened after Africa… if you went back to him and if so, why."

"Well, as I said this afternoon, it was complicated…" she reminded him.

"Would you mind telling me why?"

While his eyes lay attentively on her she was unsure how to answer him. All of this happened such a long time ago and it had involved a lot of heartbreak and tears. Her first, failed engagement to Reginald, the war in Africa, and the months and years after her return still belonged to the most challenging times of her life. She rarely spoke of them and Matthew knew next to nothing about the years before his birth. Like to many other people, Matthew thought his parent's marriage had been as ordinary as it gets and she preferred to let him think it had been. What counted was that she and Reginald had been happy until he had died so unexpectedly.

"You know, I really liked it when we didn't talk about personal matters," she said, hoping to distract him.

He chuckled, "Well, the games has changed and the stakes are higher today."

"And why?" she asked.

"Because things have changed now that I know how close you live to me... That you're not married anymore and there's apparently no other man I have to be jealous of. For the first time since I've met you, I can freely admit that I've fallen in love with you."

Her mouth opened and closed again. Her easiness was completely gone and her mouth became dry. She put the cup on the table and rose. Never, not once before one of them had spoken about love. Their relationship was based on lust, desire, and companionship. Love was a different beast, one that led to the abyss.

He stepped behind her while she stared into the flames.

"Don't tell me, you're surprised."

"Well, I am," she said and realized now lame she sounded. "Mostly because I don't think I'm the only lover you had over the years. I think you overvalue our relationship as it was. Wars can have that kind of effects on affairs."

If she hoped he would back off due to her harsh response, she was mistaken. He placed his hands on her shoulders and she swallowed upon the intimate gesture.

"You're right, there were other women over the years, but less than you think. And if my memory serves me right, I don't overvalue anything. Not any single moment."

His hands ran down her arms and slowly snaked around her waist. She should free herself out of his embrace and flee his house, but she stayed and let it happen that he kissed her cheek and held her closely against him. It had been over two years that she had felt the loving arms of a man around her. Two quite lonely years, if she was honest with herself. She had missed him. In her bed and in her life.

"Are you sure, you want to know about my marriage to Reginald?" she asked.

"Of course. I need to know what kind of man could get your love for so long. I want to know all about you..." he whispered and let his lips wander down her neck.

* * *

_South Africa, 1880_

When she left the hospital over two hours after her shift had officially ended, Isobel had completely forgotten he had promised to pick her up. She stormed out of the building, her eyes blinded from tears of exhaustion, frustration, and a heavy heart.

This day had been the worst day since her arrival in Africa and all she wanted was some peace and quiet.

"Isobel! Miss Turnbull!" She heard him rushing after her and stopped when she suddenly remembered his promise to wait for her. She quickly wiped the tears from her face, but the effort was useless.

"Is everything…. Is everything all right?" he asked, out of breath, as he reached her. He tore the hat from his head and gave her a worried look.

"I'm sorry," she said and sniffed. In the pockets of her skirts, she search for a handkerchief and only found the one he had given her. "Don't tell me you've waited all this time for me."

"Of course, I did…," he admitted. "After a while I figured you must had a lot of work and so I decided to wait. You're a woman who's hard to overlook."

His joke failed its purpose and when he registered new tears on her face, he offered her his arm. "Where should I take you?" he asked gently.

"I don't care," she said as she gratefully took his arm. "Just take me away from here."

* * *

_Paris. 1918_

"Are you sure about this?" He saw the doubtful expression on her face and gave her a smile.

"I think it's the only way." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a letter. Pommeroy had written it to Ada some years ago and he had found it, after she had misplaced it. He had taken it with him as a reminder, but how he realized it could be of much better use.

"We found out that Pommeroy rented the deposit box under a false name and we won't be able to open it until we know what name he used. Then we can fake a document that gives us access to the deposit box."

He gave the letter to Ruggles who was sitting opposite Isobel. He could tell Ruggles wasn't yet used to her presence. Every now and then he looked at her, obviously estimating how trustworthy she really was. He didn't blame him. Every time Ada looked at Ruggles it was obvious she wanted to get rid off him instantly. In her eyes, he didn't fit in and she disliked everything that didn't fit in. Sometimes he wondered, if he only hated hunting and the whole lifestyle at Cavenham, because Ada adored it. Isobel was different, but Ruggles wasn't one to trust people easily and he was overly suspicious of women.

They sat in a small restaurant in Montparnasse. It was late afternoon and Dickie and Ruggles had spent most of the day in chase of location of the safe deposit box. The result was sobering to say the least.

"But faking a document to get access to his safe deposit sounds anything but legal," she said doubtfully.

"Well, it wasn't legal to steal the jewellery in the first place," he said. "Even if Pommeroy is still alive, I doubt I could convince him to give me the authorization to open the box."

"What if nothing's in there?" she asked worried. "What if he was fooling you to get rid off you?"

"I can't rule that out," he admitted.

"I don't like it," she said. "It sounds ominous and dangerous."

He looked at Ruggles who pretended to read his menu. "Don't worry about us," he said. "We've been in worse situations, aren't we Ruggles?"

Ruggles just nodded.

"What did you do today?" he asked. When they had met near the restaurant he had noticed a small shopping bag.

He noticed how her cheeks flushed. "I had to run some errands," she said. "It was a good opportunity to make use of my rusty French."

"Did you get everything you needed?"

"I think so…," she said vaguely and picked up her own menu. "And now I'm hungry."

He wanted to ask her, what exactly she was hiding from him, but since Ruggles was watching her like a hawk, he decided to wait until they were alone.

* * *

_South Africa, 1920_

It was already dark outside when she woke up. The oil lamp beside the bed spread a warm light across the room, painted shadows against the white wall. Dazed she looked up, found him sitting at a desk near the window. He turned when he heard her stirring underneath the thin sheet. He only wore his trousers and his dog tag dangled around his neck. It looked so unlikely adventurous that it almost made her laugh. If she only didn't have the lingering feeling that she had done something incredibly stupid before she had fallen asleep.

"What time is it?" she asked and covered her face with her hands. She had light headache and her tongue felt somewhat rubbery.

"Not too late," he answered vaguely and strolled over to her bedside. He kneeled down next to her and she carefully pushed up on her elbows.

"Do you feel better?" he asked, as he tenderly pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"I think I do…." Self-conscious she moved a bit, finally realizing she was naked under the sheet that exposed more of her body than it covered. She blushed and sank back into her pillow. What a shame. She lay naked in a man's bed and couldn't remember how she got there and what she had done. It took all the courage she could muster to ask the following question. "What exactly did happen before I fell asleep?"

He chuckled lowly. "What do you remember?"

"Some kind of flask and the taste of whiskey. I hate whiskey. It's like tea with honey. Disgusting."

"Whiskey's pretty much what happened," he said. "I'm afraid your virtue is still intact..."

A bit relieved, but all the more confused she pushed herself up again. "I have this feeling I made an utter fool of myself," she summed up and sighed. Her memory returned piece by piece and she hated the images her mind reproduced.

First there had been this letter, another letter from home that made her heart ache. She had found it on her bed when she returned home from her dinner with him and the contents had given her sleepless night. Her mother in all her vicious glory had reported about a dinner party at the house of mayor where she had met Emma Ferguson's parents.

"Charming people who spoke so highly of her daughter and her new suitor…" Of course 'the new suitor' mentioned in the letter was no one else than Reginald. As if this piece of information hadn't been bad enough to begin with, she had had to assist a surgery, to be precise an amputation. The patient, a young corporal with a spotty face and desperation written all over his face, was too agitated and lashed out at everyone. The anesthesia with ether hadn't worked, and the doctor had been too overworked and impatient to wait. The screams of pain, the blood, the terror…. She still heard, smelled, felt all of it. Every gory detail. She froze, despite the heat. There wasn't enough whiskey and sleep in the world to forget the horror of that afternoon. She had fled the hospital, questioning her decision to become a nurse. Was she really cut out for work like this? Perhaps her mother was right after all, which was perhaps the most bitter insight of her life.

"Don't worry. You didn't. I just wish I could have been more of help…." His voice was as warm and tender as was his hand when he caressed her face. The loving gesture sent tears to her eyes and she gave him a shy smile. Her embarrassment about being naked in his bed after everything that hadn't happened between them faded slowly. She took his dog tag into her hand and ran her thumb over the engraved dates. "I know you're birthday now. It's not too far away," she said, blinking her tears away.

"That is true… so will you tell me what happened today?" The man was persistent, she had to give him that.

"Why do you care so much?" she asked a little bewildered.

"Why shouldn't I care?" he asked back. "It bothers you and I find myself bothered when you feel bothered."

"I think that's called empathy," she said pensively, as she ran her index finger over his chest.

"So?"

"Would you mind another agreement between us?" she asked and slipped a little closer to him.

"Try me." He placed a soft kiss on her naked shoulder.

"I'll tell you, if you promise to make me forget afterwards."

His lips ran up and down her shoulder, produced goose bumps all over skin and a tingling up and down her spine. He took his time, said nothing, while her heart beat increased with every passing second.

"Is this about forgetting him?" he asked. "I need to what's at stake when I agree to your challenge…"

She chuckled, "I said agreement…."

"I have this feeling it's more of a challenge."

"It's partially about him," she admitted. "But it's much more about a horrible day at the hospital. I hate this war."

He leaned in to kiss her softly on the lips. "Me too… Although…" he paused, kissed her again and added, "Not all of it, some of it is actually pretty enchanting."

She kissed him back. More and more fiercely as her hunger for him grew. She wanted, needed something to release the built-up tension inside her, and, he was right on this one, she wanted him to erase her love for Reginald. The man who had used and abused her love for him and courted another young woman in the safety of their hometown while she was nursing young, wounded soldiers.

She ran her fingers through his hair and lured him into bed with her. Would he look down on her once he got what he wanted from her? She didn't know and at this point she didn't care, because she wanted something from him, too. Physical release and reassurance. When she had given herself to Reginald she had already passed the Rubicon. If she now threw herself into the Abyss, she wanted to enjoy it to the fullest extent without regret.

His mouth travelled across her skin, explored normally covered territory and gave her new shivers once it reached a sensitive area. Her body reacted instantly to every, unfamiliar touch and flicker of his tongue. Sensational heat developed within her core and spread through her veins. He took his time as he kissed her breasts, belly and hips, and left small marks on her skin. For a second she wondered how often he had done this to other women and decided it didn't matter, because he was doing it to her now. When she had made love to Reginald everything had been over so fast, because they had been both felt like in a fever. This man really made it his task to please her, before he rewarded himself, which was not what her mother had told her about men. Maybe her mother had been wrong about a lot of other things, too…

"Are you sure?" His voice sounded husky against her ear and she nodded when his hand found the way between her legs. She buckled her hips against his stroking hand, but there was one last, rational thought left on her mind.

"I don't want to get pregnant," she mumbled against his mouth.

He cupped her face with his face and kissed the tip of her nose. "You won't. I promise."

* * *

_London, 1920_

Alexander Ferguson sat in the lobby of the Hotel Britannica and pretended to read a newspaper. It had taken him some telephone calls to find out, in which hotel Isobel stayed during her visit. After he had asked for her at Grantham House and was told, no one of the family stayed there, he had started wondering why she didn't use the residence of her relatives. Then it had occurred to him that, if she had an affair with a married man, she wouldn't want any of them to know about it. So, he had made some further enquiries and had found out where she stayed and that she had extended her stay for two more days. He grinned. It was easy, still so easy to read her. It was a let down and a relief at once that this woman's modus operandi never changed. She was still a wasted mix of naivety and boldness.

It reminded him about the past and how she had lured Reginald into her web. It reminded him of the unnecessary death of Emma. Beautiful and sweet Emma whom he missed more than he had ever anticipated when they were children.

Isobel's choice of a lover was as uninspirational as it was calculative. The man, a baron, was married and rich, if his information was valid, even richer than the Granthams.

And there he was. Alexander risked a quick glance over the edge of his paper and recognized Lord Merton as he passed him on his way to the lift. He didn't go to the reception to ask for a key, which probably meant he was there for a planned rendezvous and not some spontaneous visit. Ferguson checked his pocket watch. It was almost five o'clock. Time for tea. Should he waste his time and wait for Lord Merton to leave? Should he rain on their parade and knock at the door, hoping to interrupt their most delicious moment?

He sighed and decided to postpone his plan. He had the feeling there would come a different, a much better time to expose her.

*******tbc********

**Happy Sunday :-) I'm a bit slow at writing these days. I simply have too much to do, but I hope this chapter makes up for the wait. Enjoy and let me know, what you think! **


	8. Evanescence

_I'm a bit slow at writing these days, because life's rather busy. The Paris part is rated 'M', so please read with closed eyes, if you feel the need to ;-) _

**Chapter 8 - Evanescence**

"_For the wind passes over it, and it is gone, __and its place knows it no more." * Psalm 103:16_

_Downton, 1920_

As the spring passed by and the days became warmer and longer, Isobel found herself more and more restless. Since the first night she had spent with Dickie in London her inner peace was destroyed. In spite of her better intentions she had given into temptation with the result that all the days and nights, she couldn't be with him, were tainted by longing agony. She missed him desperately when he wasn't there and she lived in the constant fear of exposure every time she met him. Even when they ran into each other in the village she always feared someone could spot their connection, could read their minds, understood the silent message they sent each other through glances. It was a complete new experience for her to feel under irreal scrutiny. She had never felt like this in Africa or in France. No one had known them there and she had been young enough to ignore raised eyebrows. They could spent as much time together as they wished to without wondering if someone might recognized them. Here, she always wondered if Matthew or the Dowager would spontaneously drop in for lunch or tea, compromising them. The rare afternoons when Dickie came to Crawley House were as precious to her as their time together was short. The circumstances, the reality of their liaison was even worse than she had expected it to be and that hurt.

Sometimes she even heard her mother's voice in the back of her head, whispering 'I told you so!' which was ridiculous, but her own state of mind worried Isobel.

Another shadow that crossed her life in Downton happened by the end of May. Sybil Crawley, young, sweet, rebellious Sybil died after childbirth from eclampsia. The shock about her sudden death ran deep and reminded her about the general evanescence of life. Another young life wasted, another child who grew up without a mother.

With the grief over Sybil another dark beast awoke in the deepest, most twisted windings of her mind. A memory she had locked up far away. Burying Sybil had brought it back to the surface and forced her to deal with it.

Every afternoon she made a walk across the village and she ended up on the cemetery. There, at Sybil's fresh grave, she thought about another young woman who had died many years ago. The context had been different, but the outcome the same.

Emma had died after a miscarriage in June 1883. Isobel remembered the day as if it had been yesterday. She remembered the panic, the fear, and the disbelief she had felt when the letter with the news had reached her. She also remembered Reginald, his self loath and his tears for this other woman and she still didn't know, if she had mourned for Emma because her death had hurt him, or if, at the end of the day, Emma had meant something to her as well. The pain of losing someone she had never liked, even hated at times, but respected was still a sentiment she couldn't fathom and probably never would.

She heard steps behind her and turned. She had expected the Dowager or someone else from the family, but it was Dickie. He kept a respectful distance to her and greeted her with a tip against his head.

"What are you doing here?" she asked surprised.

"I was in the village posting a letter," he explained when he stopped next to her. "I saw you walking up here and thought I could say hello."

Paranoid as she was these days, she looked around, scanned the cemetery and the street near the church for curious observers, but there was no one on the watch for them. Again she told herself that it was her guilty conscience that played her for the fool she was.

"Well, hello then…"

"How are you feeling?" he asked and she noticed the worry in his voice. She knew she looked like a ghost these days. In the morning, when she had looked into the mirror a gray-faced, tired, old woman had looked back at her. She had quickly looked away and now she wished he wouldn't look at her at all. To him she wanted to be her old self, the independent woman who appeared strong and healthy even when she wasn't. Someone who was attractive and desirable for him, like in Paris…

"Tired, sad," she replied with a shrug. "Like we all feel."

"I hope you weren't angry with me…."

"Whatever for?" she asked astonished.

"For not talking to you at the funeral," he answered. "It didn't feel right."

"No, it wouldn't have been right," she agreed quickly. It didn't mean that she didn't miss him. She longed for a tender gesture from him, but she was too weary to find the words to tell him.

"You should go," she said after a minute of silence.

"I know, but I don't want to. I would rather spend the afternoon with you."

"Don't…." she said, almost beggingly.

He sighed. "I'll write to you."

"Please do…." She looked at him and gave him the warmest of smiles. "I've always loved your letters."

"And I love you. Please, don't forget that."

He bowed his head, tipped against his hat, and turned on his heels, leaving her alone, as the sun finally came out and brightened up the cloudy day.

* * *

_Paris, 1918 _

Lightning twitched across the night sky and he heard heavy rain hitting the windows of the small bedroom. Somewhere in the distance thunder roared, but it was overlapped by the delicious, lust stricken sounds that escaped her throat. The words she whispered against his ear were muffled and he wished he understood each and every one of it. If anything he wanted to be as close as possible to her. She who was always so opaque was never more honest as in moments like these, when she was lost in their love making. Then she truly belonged to him and he was so desperate to remember every touch and every word she shared with him.

Her body was covered with sweat and it was all evident that she thoroughly enjoyed herself. The rhythm she had set after since he had slid into her was slow and determined and he was happy to oblige. He had never felt more desired by a woman before. Her birthday present for him, a negligee she had found in a boutique, lay on the floor next to their bed. He couldn't believe his luck when he had realized she had remembered his birthday and had gone through the effort of purchasing French laundry to seduce him.

When he had slowly removed the smooth silk from her skin he had again understood what a difference she made to his life. At home he would have to endure a formal dinner with people he didn't like and a family who didn't care. The joy of his day would have been a glass of whiskey in his study after everyone else had left.

Her thighs clenched around his hips and her body arched up against him, the unmistakable sign that she was close, but needed more friction to reach her satisfaction. Always eager to fulfil her every wish, he slipped his hands between their bodies, earning a loud sigh from her that he muffled with his mouth. It filled him with joy to know how to drive her to the edge and keep her there, before they stumbled into the abyss together.

* * *

_ South Africa, 1881_

"My brother's funeral will be tomorrow afternoon." It came out very nonchalant, but she knew him well enough by now to tell when he something was upsetting him. She turned away from the mirror, but the hair brush aside and looked at him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and was putting on his shirt.

It was New Year's Day and her first day off since she had arrived. Her room mate had wanted to spend the day with her, but she had refused, pretending to have some errands to run, because she wanted to be with him rather than with anyone else.

She still had no idea who exactly he was and despite her curiosity, she found that she cared less and less about this background. She had her suspicions though, and his, compared to hers noble accommodation, seemed to confirm them. He stayed in the guesthouse of the British ambassador's residence, and aside from a valet and a maid she had noticed in the hallways, he was the only inhabitant she had ever seen around. The ambassador and his wife were gone like so many other officials, and when she had asked him about his relationship with them, he had just said the ambassador was a good friend of his late grandfather. She hadn't pushed the issue any further and she had decided it wasn't important. They basically had the place for themselves and no one was questioning them and their behaviour. Compared to her sheltered life in Manchester, this was heaven - if it weren't the war and its countless dead and his brother being one of them.

She climbed back onto the bed and embraced him from behind. "When is the funeral?"

"Tomorrow morning," he answered.

"I've got the early shift," she said abashed. "I'll ask the head nurse if I can switch the shift."

"Please, don't bother," he said. "It'll only be me and the Reverend anyway."

"That sounds quite sad," she returned. "I'd rather be with you. You shouldn't be on your own on a day like this."

"Oh, I won't…" he turned his head and look at her. "Not if you'll be there after your shift."

"I haven't made any other plans…" she said with a shrug. "I'm all yours."

"That's nice to hear." He gave her a soft, almost chaste kiss on the lips. She ran her finger tips over his shoulder blade, a little pensieve.

"That means you'll be gone soon, doesn't it?"

"Well, let's say I'm running out of excuses to stay. As soon as Francis buried, I have to get back to my regiment."

"I thought so." She leaned against him. THe idea of him leaving made a sad, and at the same time it was freeing her for something that had been on her mind for a couple of days now. "I've made a decision. I'm going to ask for a transfer."

He grabbed for her hand and held it to his chest. "What kind of transfer? Where?"

"There's a field hospital near Lydenburg," she explained after a short hesitation. "I think I can be more of use there than here."

"That's close to the front," he said alarmed.

"I know."

"Aren't you scared?" he asked.

"Beyond words," she admitted with a nervous chuckle. "But I think I have to do this."

"Why? Aren't you risking enough already?" He pulled her down on the mattress and leaned over her. She chuckled when she saw the curious look on his face. "What is it?"

"Are you even old enough to ask for such a transfer without permission?"

She knew he was joking, but she still slapped his shoulder. "As a matter of fact I am," she said. "I became 21 last summer."

"Pity…"

Touched by his worry she snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him down for another kiss. "One day you'll be a very good, but very worried to a girl and I hope she loves you all the more for it."

He became pensieve, "Do you really think so?"

"Of course," she answered.

"Do you want children?"

She laughed, "I doubt, I'll have a say in it once I get married."

"That's not what I ask," he said. "Do you really want them? From the bottom of your heart."

She thought for a moment. "Yes, I think, I do… I want a boy and a girl."

"Me too…."

She felt there was something else, he wanted to ask of her, but didn't dare to phrase.

"Are you hungry?" he asked instead.

"I am," she confirmed.

"Me too. You wore me out." His lips brushed along her cheek and down her neck. It tickled and reminded her of their afternoon.

She blushed and cleared her throat while she pushed him away from her. "Let me get up. I need to get dressed."

* * *

_Downton, 1920 _

With the Abbey still being a house in mourning, the celebration of Mary's birthday were low key and unenthusiastic. Isobel couldn't blame the family for not feeling like celebrating and even Mary who loved being the centre of attention, seemed gloomy. Matthew had taken on the task to cheer up his wife and Isobel couldn't say she agreed with his choice of measure. He had invited Alexander Ferguson for dinner when he had run into him in London a couple of weeks ago.

Isobel who still hadn't forgotten the disdain with that he had treated her at the dinner before the wedding was not happy to see him at the table, being as cordial and charming to everyone excluding her. At least he stayed at the Abbey and she didn't have to accommodate him for the night and endure his presence at her table for breakfast the next day. Much to her annoyance he was in a especially jovial mood tonight. Completely oblivious to Cora's stubborn silence, he reported about a new treatment for woman who had trouble carrying a baby to term. Matthew, sensing his mother was about to say something to silence Ferguson, was quicker and eloquently changed the subject. It bewildered Isobel how casually Ferguson approached the subject. She was sure Matthew had informed him about the reason for Sybil's death and after all his own twin sister had died in similar circumstances. She repressed the memory of Emma and the successive thoughts about Reginald and finished her plate. Like so often these days, she barely knew what she ate.

It was a relief when the dinner was finally over and they all went to the drawing room to enjoy their coffee. Isobel was already thinking about an excuse to make an early exit when the Dowager approached her.

"Thank heavens for Matthew," Violet said when sat down next to Isobel.

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently he knows how to handle Sir Alexander. I thought he would never stop talking about unborn children and dying mothers."

"I agree, it was quite inappropriate."

"It was…. Speaking of which…" Violet had tuned down her voice, something that always aroused Isobel's curiosity.

"Yes?"

"Before dear Sybil died, my maid told me something about Lord Merton that I found very curious."

Isobel's heart skipped a beat while she waited for the older woman to continue.

"She's talked to Lady Merton's ladies maid and apparently she isn't well."

"The maid?" Isobel asked tonelessly. Violet rolled her eyes in response. "No, Lady Merton. It seems she's not well at all. She's been to Harley Street several times during the last couple of weeks, but no one knows what's wrong with her."

"And what's that to me?" Isobel asked, a bit relieved the conversation was about Lady Merton and not her husband. Yet, Dickie had never told her Ada was ill and the news started to concern her. She had been so occupied with herself and when he was visiting her, she always avoided thinking and talking about Ada. Perhaps she should ask him the next time she saw him.

Over the edge of her cup, Violet gave Isobel a meaningful glance. "I thought you might know more."

"I don't," Isobel returned tartly. She had the ugly feeling Violet knew everything about Dickie and her and she hated that the Dowager might judged her. Violet, however, shrugged and returned her attention to Matthew and Alexander. Both men stood near the fireplace and were deeply lost in a conversation.

"Now you do. I'm sure you'll know what to do with this piece of information."

Isobel shrugged exasperated and finished her coffee, wishing it was a brandy. Just as Violet she had noticed the conversation between Matthew and his godfather. Isobel knew her son well enough to know when he was uneasy and watching him now she could tell, he was deeply unhappy about something. His eyebrows had narrowed, his shoulders were tense, and his jaws were clenched. He looked exactly like Reginald had when he had been angry.

Ready to interrupt them, she put her cup on the small table, but then Matthew looked at her and his facial expression let her froze. She swallowed, shocked about the coldness in his eyes and wished there was something she could say or do to wipe the disgust from her son's face, but in this room filled with people it was barely possible to do so.

"What's eating at him?" Violet asked, almost thrilled by the sudden tension between mother and son.

"I don't know," Isobel answered and decided to stay put in her seat. Whatever it was Alexander had told Matthew, she feared it was something so life altering that had the power to change her relationship with Matthew forever.

********tbc********

**Have a great week and let me know what you think :-) **


	9. Ghosts

**Thanks for the lovely comments. Here's the next chapter. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday! **

**Chapter 9 - Ghosts **

"_Bury your dead." ~ Agatha Christie _

_Downton, 1920_

"I can't believe you haven't told me any about this!" Matthew said, anger written all over his face.

He stood near the fireplace in Isobel's drawing room. After his arrival he had spent over ten minutes ranting about everything Alexander Ferguson had told him at Mary's birthday dinner. He was so enraged that he didn't give Isobel any chance to explain the matter from her point of view. His behaviour didn't really surprise her. It was so typical for him to march in right after breakfast, while she was reading her mail to get everything off his chest. He was very much like Reginald in that respect. Glad he was too furious to notice anything, she stuffed Dickie's letter behind the cushion and endured his tirade with growing annoyance.

"Have you quite finished?" she asked snappily when Matthew finally took a moment to catch his breath.

"Is that all you have to say?" he asked perplexed.

"Well, since you seem so pretty sure you know everything, what else is there left to say? I would appreciate, if you stopped yelling at me like some mad man. I'm your mother after all. I think I deserve better!"

Matthew sighed exasperated, but his face became pale, just as if he had just realized whom he was actually talking to. "Just tell me, Alexander was wrong," he begged, "Because there was no good reason for you or Father for not telling me about his first marriage to another woman." Matthew's voice was shaking. Isobel saw how hard it was for him to grasp the ugly truth Alexander had told him. Her anger over Matthew's godfather and his demeanour grew. Again she wished, she had never met him. The man was like a thorn in her side. He was always painfully reminding her about his existence, when she thought she was done with him.

"Alexander wasn't wrong," Isobel admitted. "Your father and I just never thought it was essential for you to know about his first marriage. Emma died under very tragic circumstance only six months after their wedding. It was painful for everyone involved."

"And you and Father married only one year later."

"Are you angry with me for marrying your father?" she asked. "I wish I knew why Alexander told you about it in the first place. Even if Emma was his sister, I don't see the point of brining it up right after Sybil's death. It was quite distatesteful."

Wearily Matthew crossed the room and settled down on the sofa. Suddenly all the furious energy seemed to have drained out of him. "Of course, I'm not angry with you for marrying Father. I just wished you had told me. I looked like a fool when I told him about Sybil and how I wished he were less enthusiastic about his medical field within a family who had just lost a daughter and sister in childbirth," Matthew said. "I had no idea he had a sister, a twin sister at that, who died of a similar fate and I certainly had no idea Father was married to her."

"Well, it was very sad," she agreed, but she noticed her voice lacked real compassion. Her son sensed the same and looked appraisingly at her. "What's your story with Emma?"

"Let it go, Matthew. It happened a long time ago."

"I want to know…. What's so horrible that you won't tell me?"

She wished she had an answer that wouldn't insult his moral compass. The last thing she wanted was for him to lose the respect for Reginald and for her. She thought of Lavinia and his long struggle with her death and his feelings for Mary. He almost missed out on the love of his life, because he felt guilty and thought he deserved to be unhappy. Matthew was the most upright person she knew and didn't forgive easily.

"Your father felt guilty for everything that happened to Emma. He met her after we became engaged. He fell in love with Emma and broke off our relationship while I was training as a nurse in South Africa. It all happened behind my back and if my mother hadn't written to me about it, I would have come home after the war to find I had lost my fiancé to another woman."

"I see…" he said flatly.

"See, it was complicated, but after her death we found our way back together - just like you and Mary found bac together. And now I would appreciate if you allowed the dead to rest in peace!"

"You still should have told me," Matthew insisted, but his voice lacked the ultimate conviction. Isobel knew the feelings only to well. Sometimes it was best not to know too much about the people you loved.

"Well, I disagree. I really do."

Apparently unhappy and somewhat disappointed with the outcome of the conversation Matthew got back to his feet. Her had a lot to digest and she hoped he would indeed allow them all to move on. She didn't want Alexander to think he his little scheme had been successful.

"I think, I'll take my leave now," he said. He placed a soft kiss on Isobel's cheek and left in silence.

* * *

Two days later Isobel leaned against the window frame at the window in her bedroom and looked outside. Dreamily she admired the summer splendour of her garden. Unlike the days that lay behind her, she felt at peace with herself and she knew it was because of the man she had just made love to. In moments like these the madness of their affair seemed unimportant. She was just happy, he had come to see her, despite the risks such a visit involved.

"Darling, are you all right?" Dickie asked as he approached her. She turned a bit and gave him a smile. He was busy fixing on his cufflinks and when she saw his unsuccessful efforts, she decided to take over.

"Of course," she said.

"You seem so preoccupied."

"I was just thinking…"

"And about what?"

She shrugged, suddenly a bit uneasy. She didn't like talking about her feelings and she never had, but she didn't want to be so unkind not to tell him, how good she felt with and about him. "I feel a little too happy today. The last couple of weeks... Sybil's death and Mary's awful birthday dinner... I felt so dreadful and now…" She let go of his wrist. "I never felt better."

"I take it as a compliment," he said. He took her hand and led her slowly away from the window. "And now I'm sorry I have to leave." He closed his arms around her and kissed her. Then he leaned back and gave her a curious look.

"What happened at Mary's birthday?"

Isobel rolled her eyes. "Matthew's godfather was there and did his best to make a difficult evening even more difficult."

"Mister Ferguson?"

"Sir Alexander," she corrected him sourly. "The man's got a lot of nerve."

He gently caressed her cheek. "What did he do? Did he upset you? Every time he's around you end up being upset."

"It was Matthew who was most upset," she explained. "We had a terrible argument a few days ago. I've always known Alexander didn't like me - in fact he never liked any woman. Maybe his sister, but I can't say I liked her. It's all so complicated."

"Why?" he asked.

Isobel sighed, undecided, whether to tell him or not. Maybe it was good to tell someone who could understand her better than anyone. After all he had been the one to catch her when she felt miserable for Reginald's betrayal.

"Emma, that was her name and she was not only Alexander's sister, she was also Reginald's first wife."

Isobel could read in his face how his brain was putting the pieces together. "I see…. Was that the woman he left you for when you were in South Africa?"

She nodded. Sensing it was right to share her story with someone who wouldn't judge her for it, she took his hand. "Sit with me," she said. "This could take a few minutes." He followed her to the bed where they sat down.

"Emma died from a miscarriage only six months after the wedding. Her twin brother Alexander and Reginald were friends since they were children. They studied together and both started practising at my father's hospital. They were inseparable, like blood brothers. Alexander was the one introduced his sister to Reginald. I don't know if he planned any of this, but Reginald fell for Emma, left me, and they got married. Then she died and everything changed…. Alexander never got over her death. He tried to save her, but she died under his hands. I always had the feeling he hated me all the more after her death. As you can imagine, Emma and I never got along very well. When I came home from Africa, Reginald was still working at my father's hospital and he continued to do so even after it was clear that he was going to marry someone else. So it was inevitable that we ran into each other and I admit, I enjoyed making her jealous. Looking back, I have to say I behaved dreadfully."

Dickie said nothing. She had the feeling he didn't want to say anything wrong and so she just continued. "Really, a lot of the things that went wrong were my fault. I was young and losing him had hurt so much. I wasn't used to the feeling of not getting what I wanted - I'm still not very good at losing. I thought I could get away with everything, if I was persistent enough. When I went to Africa to study as a nurse, I did it against Reginald's wishes. He thought it was too dangerous and he was angry with me for not listening to him. I left England anyway, sure he would wait for me…. Well, he didn't…." Her voice trailed off.

"So, he went off to marry someone else. That doesn't sound very logical to me."

"No one ever said, love is made of logic," she reminded him with a smile. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

He crooked his eyebrow and agreed coyly, "True."

"You know, when Reginald proposed to me - the second time, I wasn't sure I wanted to marry him. I was happy, of course, but I was also scared what he'd do, the next time we disagreed on something as essential as my going to Africa. In the end it was my grandmother who helped me to make a decision."

"What did she say?" he asked curiously.

"She said just one sentence, 'Bury your dead and move on with your life.'"

"That sounds wise."

"Oh, she was…." Isobel smiled. "Unfortunately Matthew never met her. She died a few months after our wedding." She fell silent and he took her hand and kissed it gently.

"I think your grandmother was quite right."

"How do you mean?"

"You allow Sir Alexander to get under your skin and you allow him to create a rift between Matthew and you."

"And you want me to bury him?" she asked perplexed.

He chuckled, " Only figuratively, of course. Confront him and tell him to leave you alone. I would do it for you, but I have this feeling you won't allow it."

"I certainly won't!" she agreed. "He has left me alone for the last eight years and I wish I knew why's he back and why he's still filled with so much bitterness."

He shrugged, "I don't know, but if you want to know, you'll have to ask him - or you have to ask someone who might know."

She contemplated his suggestion for a moment before she nodded. "Yes, why not. I think I know just the person to ask." She cupped his face with her hands and placed a kiss on his mouth. "Thank you."

He looked up, clearly puzzled "What ever for exactly?"

"For listening."

"Anything for you, my dear."

For a moment they fell silent, beaming in each other's company. She thought about him and his presence in her life. He was always so eager to make her happy that he rarely spoke about himself or his life. She knew, she had always been his escape from his life at Cavenham, but it didn't feel right not to share his sorrows. "So, if you ever have anything to say or to get off your chest, I'm here…."

"I know." It sounded as avoiding as it was meant and so she decided to push her luck. Violet's comments about Ada's declining health was something that was bothering her and she wanted to know more, especially if and how it affected him.

"Someone told me, Ada's ill. Why haven't you told me?"

He sighed and let go off her hand. "There isn't much to tell. The doctors are quite clueless. All we know is that her general condition is going from bad to worse." She felt how he distanced himself from her, as if he was building up a wall around him. Was he trying to hide how affected he was by his wife's illness?

"In what way?" she asked.

He shrugged, "She lost a lot of weight, suffers from headaches, feels weak, even too weak to get out of bed most days. Her mental state is also… worrying."

"Could it be some sort of cancer?" she asked carefully.

He answered with another shrug. "The doctor assumes some kind of meningitis, but as I said, he isn't sure yet."

"Oh dear… why didn't you tell me?" she asked and slipped a little closer to him. She ran her fingers over the neck of his back, felt the tension and started to give him a soft massage.

"What is there to talk about?" he asked. "We live in the same house, but we barely talk. Even when she's ill, she's as mean spirited as she always was."

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He took her hand from the back of his neck and squeezed it. "It's all right, my Darling. It's all right."

She closed her eyes to enjoy the last minutes of their time together before he had to leave again. She wasn't sure, if he truly believed what he just said and she had the feeling he wasn't either.

* * *

_Paris, 1918 _

His right arm was burning with a pain that reached from the wound in his hand into his shoulder blade. He tried to ignore it, but the longer he carried Ruggles up the stairs, the more it hurt. Ruggles' blood had not only soaked his own clothes, but now it also stained Dickie's own coat. Ruggles' breath was frantic and flat and roared in his ears. Dickie had heard this kind of breathing before. During the war in South Africa some of fellow comrades had breathed that way. It was the sign that their lungs were filling with blood, it was a sign of quick decline. He needed to get him back to the apartment in the fifth floor, where Isobel was waiting for them. She could help treating the wound and she knew enough French to get a doctor. If he only reached her before it was too late.

His worst fear was just becoming reality. He had known the risk, but had still gone ahead with his plans to get the jewellery back. He had recklessly involved the people closest to him, especially Isobel, because he wanted her near him for as long as possible. At the beginning everything had gone according to plan. The manager of the bank had accepted the falsified letter from Pommeroy and they had achieved access to the safe deposit box. As expected there was much more jewellery in it, than just the pieces Dickie had been looking for. Most of it was, while not worthless, far less valuable than the pieces Pommeroy had stolen from Ada. They had split the theft and had taken separated ways. When Ruggles hadn't turned up at their agreed meeting place near a metro station, Dickie had started searching for him. He had found him two streets away from the bank in a park, where he had been half sitting, half lying on a bench. Someone had stolen the jewellery and had stabbed him with a knife. It didn't help that Ruggles wasn't talking. Even under the present, life threatening circumstances he didn't utter one word.

He prayed to God the people who had hurt Ruggles hadn't found and hurt Isobel. Perhaps the people who had attacked Ruggles had been watching the three of them for the last couple of days and they hadn't noticed it. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her as well.

Soaked with sweat and Ruggles' blood he reached the top of the staircase. The apartment lay behind the second door to this left. When he reached the door, he saw it was standing wide open. His heart skipped a beat and he almost forgot he was carrying a man who was more dead than alive.

He took a deep breath and stepped inside the apartment, hoping he was just trapped in the middle of a nightmare.

********tbc*********


	10. Sapphire

_Here we go again. Thanks for all the lovely comments for the last chapter. As always I won't answer all of your questions, because, well… *Spoilers* But it's great of you to ask them anyway. So, please keep asking :-) _

**Chapter 10 - Sapphire**

"**...a blue sapphire, source of strength, source of strength and eternal hope." Anita Diamant **

_London, 1920_

Isobel had known from the moment her son had invited her for dinner in the very heart of West End of London that he must have an ulterior motive, but since she couldn't fathom what he planned, she just decided to get along with it. The absence of Mary should have alarmed her, but she didn't really think about it. Since her last meeting with Dickie her head was literally in the clouds. He was always on her mind and she hoped spending time with Matthew would distract her until she could see him again. A short trip to London gave her the chance to do something she hadn't done in ages, something that she regretted ever since Dickie had returned to her life. Matthew was taking her out for dinner to the Criterion Restaurant, and she saw her chance to wear the jewellery Dickie had given her in Paris. She never dared to wear them at the Abbey, but London was different and in case Matthew would notice the gems, she had prepared a fitting excuse for their existence.

Since Rosamund was travelling across the continent, Matthew had arranged for the two of them to stay in her house at Belgrave Square. It was a nice change to have Matthew around again without having to share him. It reminded her of their life in Manchester after Reginald had died. To her amazement Matthew had quickly come to terms with the news about his father's previous marriage to another woman. He hadn't mentioned the subject again and she was glad for it. After all Dickie's advice to leave the past in the past was reasonable.

Sometimes she found herself wondering, if one day she could confide in Matthew about her relationship with Dickie Merton. It was a pleasant dream to think that one day in the future the two of them didn't have to hide and could lead a life that wasn't stained by secrets meetings, lies, and deceit.

Of course, she wouldn't tell Matthew the whole story. There was no need for him to know anything about the time she had spent with Dickie in South Africa when her heart still belonged to someone else… Sometimes she thought the few months she had spent with him were the distant memories of another woman, someone who had been young and foolish enough to think she could everything she wanted without having to pay for it. There was also no need to tell him about France. Their adventure in France had been crazy, totally unreal in retrospect. Matthew carried his own painful memories from the war and didn't need his own mother to share hers with him.

When the maitre of the Criterion led them to their table, she couldn't believe her eyes. The person she recognized at a table near the window front was none other than Sir Alexander Ferguson. She stopped dead, causing another waiter to struggle with his tray when he almost ran into her. She realized how Matthew had fooled her and had set them up for dinner, probably with Alexander's knowledge and support, and the mere idea filled her with anger.

As soon as Matthew noticed her hesitation, he went back to her and whispered, "Mother, please…."

"How dare you?"

"Mother, I beg of you. We…. the two of you need to talk this out."

She shook her head and looked her son straight into the eyes. "No, we don't. There is nothing to talk about. It was all said and done a long time ago!"

"Mother, he's here to make amends." He sounded desperate and she noticed his eagerness to make things right between the two people that were left from his youth, but she was stubborn and wanted to leave. She glared at Alexander, saw the satisfaction written all over his face and realized, how he must have prayed for her to react just like that. If this dinner failed, he wanted it to be her fault. She should take the fall in this game - and lose a bit of her son in the process.

She scoffed. "He doesn't know the meaning of the word - and for that you can take my word!"

Matthew gently touched her elbow, "Mother, please, stay here. For me…"

It was her pride that won. If she left, she would be the loser. She would allow Alexander to walk away as the winner and as if there was one thing she hated, it was surrender.

She clenched her jaws and gave Matthew a long, hard look. "All right, but don't tell me later, I didn't warn you!"

* * *

_Paris, 1918_

He entered the apartment trying to make as less noise as possible, which wasn't easy with Ruggles' weight around his aching shoulders. Everything from the hat on his head over the several small jewellery cases and the revolver in his pockets seemed much heavier than minutes ago on the street. Sneaking inside, trying not to miss any detail around him felt a bit like it had felt in South Africa, when he could never be sure, there wasn't partisan around to ambush him.

Something was wrong in the apartment, he sensed it, and it scared him. He moved along into the living room. It was empty, but there was unused porcelain, fresh cake, and a teapot on the table. One of the chairs lay on the floor. Isobel had promised to welcome them back with tea, but she was nowhere to be seen and he also didn't hear her. Aside from Ruggles' frantic breathing, an eerie silence lay over the rooms. His gaze fell on the two doors next to the living room. One led to the kitchen, the other to the small bedroom. The bedroom door was open, the other one closed. Near the table was a stool and Dickie carefully dropped Ruggles on it. The man hissed with pain. Dickie grabbed a couple of napkins from the table and pressed them into Ruggles' hand and against the bleeding wound. Then he disposed his hat, closed the apartment door, and went on tiptoes to the kitchen door. He opened it carefully.

"There you are." His heart skipped a beat when he saw that Isobel wasn't alone in the kitchen and their situation even worse than he had anticipated.

The scene unfolding in front of his eyes was as simple as it was frightening. There was a woman standing behind Isobel. She was a bit taller, far less delicate and fragile, and she had Isobel in a headlock. The knife she held against Isobel's temple was moist with blood, possibly Ruggles' blood, since Isobel seemed shaken, but so far unharmed. Her face was pale, with panic written all over her beautiful features.

"I thought you would never make it here. I see you found your friend." Her intonation was slow and heavy, her accent harsh.

"I did," he answered slowly, hoping to buy time, hoping to find a way to free Isobel from the strangers' clutches. "The question is, who you are and why you are here."

The woman's face deformed to a grimace that was meant to be smile and exposed that one incisor and one fang missing from her upper jaw. "Isn't it obvious? I want what your friend didn't have with him when we met."

"Which is?"

Her answer came quick like a pistol shot "Don't play dumb with me!" She tightened her grip around Isobel's neck, causing her to gasp for air.

"I want the jewellery!"

"You mean… this?" Deliberately slow Dickie reached inside his coat and pulled out a casket. The engraved initials 'P.G.' graced the cover. It had belonged to his mother, before its contents had been given to Ada shortly before her death. Ada who had so foolishly lost it to Pommeroy. He stepped a little closer and showed her the casket, praying it would distract her.

"Open it!" she ordered roughly.

He did as told and opened the box. The couple of ear drops with the blue sapphires and a silver necklace with another, bigger sapphire looked as breathtaking as he remembered them from his childhood. As he had hoped, the woman was captivated by the beauty of the blue stones and the grip around Isobel's neck loosened up a bit. Greed was glittering in her eyes and her face looked even more abhorrent. He doubted she had ever been a beauty, but now that her hunger for the gems was triggered, every line of her saggy face seemed even more deformed.

"Did Pommery send you?" he asked.

"He wrote to me, told me, you came to see him and took the keys from him. He always refused to give them to me, always said it was his life insurance. Ha! Look, who's dead now! The war has done me a favour after all."

"Is he really dead? In the hospital he pretended to have amnesia…. Perhaps he's fooling you and hopes you do his dirty work."

"Naaa, he's dead, all right?! Poor devil was lucky to die the way he did."

"Are you related to him?"

She scoffed. "I'm his wife. God knows, I made the biggest mistake of my life, when I became his wife. He owes me for everything he's put me through. He owes me big!"

"I'm sure of that."

Her eyes fell on the jewellery box. It was obvious that it was hard for her to contain her wish to grab it and ran away.

Unseen by her captor, he established eye contact with Isobel, hoped she would stay calm - and eventually forgive him, if they made it out alive.

"You can have them," he said, "When you release her."

As if she suddenly remembered her hostage, she tightened the grip around Isobel's neck. He could read on her face how she weighted her options, how her greed battled with her lust to cause pain. In the end her greed won.

"Put it there!" she ordered, pointing to the worktop, near the oven. "And step back! And don't move!"

With Isobel pressed against her she moved forward. Dickie closed the casket and placed it on the worktop. He stepped aside, giving her the space to move along. All he could do now was waiting for her to make a mistake that would offer him the chance to overpower her, though he wasn't sure, if he would manage to do so. Yet, he had to try. He looked through the open door to see how Ruggles was, then he quickly returned his attention to the women.

Just as he had expected, it took her a second too long to get the casket and he used his chance. He pulled out his old army revolver and aimed at her head. He cocked it and the sound familiar enough to her to sigh in annoyance.

"Release her!" he ordered, before the woman could open her mouth.

"You idiot!" She turned around, using the full force of her weight. She choked Isobel who gasped for air, but wasn't as helpless or intimidated as her attacker thought. She kicked the woman in the shin, used the moment of surprise and pain to entangle herself from her grip and jumped aside. The woman howled and like a raging bull after a hit with the sword, she jumped forward towards Dickie who fired a shot that missed her. The bullet got stuck in the window frame, wood splintered. He swore, angry with himself. He used to be a good shot. How could he miss her? Before she reached him and could throw him over, he jumped aside.

"Richard!" He heard Isobel yelling, her voice still breathy. He saw how the woman raised her arm. The blood stained blade of the knife delved dangerously quick and then another, much quieter shot rang in his ears. The knife fell out of her hand and almost hit his foot. It took over five torturing seconds before he realized that she was dead. Her body slumped against him and the blood spread over the dirty cloth of her old dress.

"Isobel!" He pushed the heavy body aside and hastened to Isobel who still crouched on the floor. She was trembling, but struggled to get back to her feet.

"Ruggles!" she cried out and ran past Dickie inside the living room. Ruggles, a small gun still in his shaking hand, had sunk onto his knees. There was cold sweat on his forehead and he was shaking all over this body.

Dickie followed Isobel into the living room. Together they helped him to lay down.

"You need to get a doctor," was all she said to Dickie. Pale, as she was, she pressed her hand on Ruggles' wound. "Quick! Or even better we get him to the next hospital! You should never have brought him up here!"

Ruggles shook his head and waved his hands, unable to utter a word.

"He won't go to a hospital," Dickie said quickly. "We need a doctor, but you have to write me a note. You know my French…." There was no time for this discussion and she accepted it without further ado. She got back to her feet and ran into the bedroom. She returned with towels and a note she had scribbled.

"All right! I've seen a doctor's office around the corner! Make it as urgent as possible, give them money if needed! I'll take care of him!"

"And…" He looked up, the body in the smirched kitchen would raise a lot of questions and every doctor in his right mind would call the police as soon as they had left the apartment.

"I'll take care of her as well," Isobel said without looking at him. She was busy folding and pressing one towel after the other against Ruggles' wound. "Go, or your friend dies!"

He knew she was right, but he wanted to say something meaningful to her. Something that expressed his admiration for her spirit and her courage, but it was all stuck somewhere in his chest.

"Go!"

He stuffed the note in his pocket and left the apartment, hoping it wouldn't be too late to save his best and only friend.

* * *

_London, 1920 _

As the dinner went on and Alexander's false charme wore out, Isobel could see how Matthew's optimism faded like sorbet in the sunshine. Every time Alexander made an attempt to start a conversation with Isobel, he bit on granite. Suave as he was, he always found a way to redirect the subject, but she made it as hard for him as possible to speak about the past, Reginald and Emma in particular.

"You look very fresh these days," he said, offering his final compliment to her, as they rose from their seats. "It seems the clean air in Yorkshire is good for you."

"I like it," she answered crisply.

He stepped next to her, leading her away from their table. Matthew was in front of them, obviously anxious to be over and done with the evening as a whole. "May I ask…. I've always had an interest in gemstones, as you know…"

"Actually, I didn't."

He ignored her sarcastic remark and continued, "The jewellery you're wearing…. I haven't seen them on you before. Are they a present from Reginald?"

Isobel froze inwardly, but did her best not to show it. So far Matthew hadn't noticed anything, but now he stopped and turned. He took a closer look at his mother, who felt how the blood rushed into her cheeks.

"Have I seen them before?" he asked as well, as he admired the stones. "They perfectly fit your eyes."

"They are from my grandmother," she lied quickly. "I barely wear them, but thank you for the compliment!"

"I see…." Matthew said, seemingly puzzled. Then turned on his heels and led them into the foyer, where a small crowd had gathered, waiting for the maitre to sort out a reservation.

As soon as she recognized two people in the small crowd, Isobel wished she had never agreed to have that dinner. Among the small group, she saw Dickie and his wife. Tall and handsome as always, he stood there with Ada who looked pale and fragile. Her shoulders were covered by a heavy stole who seemed to crush her. The woman was ill, very ill, without a doubt, and why the couple had chosen the Criterion of all places, was a mystery to Isobel who wanted to flee the place as soon as possible. She didn't want him to see her, she didn't want to talk to him, while Ada was there. Her pure existence, however poor it was, was painful for her. It reminded her of her failure, of her weakness, of her love for a man who wasn't truly hers.

"Lord Merton!"

Matthew said and marched over to greet the couple. He was probably happy to have a reason to get away from her and Alexander.

"Matthew! What a surprise! Where's Mary…?" Dickie looked around, hoping to find Mary, while his eyes only found Isobel. She quickly lowered her eyelashes, as she moved forward to greet him and his wife. She felt Ada's eyes on her, sensed the heavy dislike the woman felt for her and something else she couldn't explain, but it was much more frightening than open hostility.

"Mary's home in Downton," Matthew explained. "My mother and I met a friend for dinner. I think you've met at the wedding!"

Alexander and Dickei shook hands, "How nice to see you again!"

"Indeed," Dickie said, but the smile on his face wasn't real. Isobel knew him well enough to notice it and despite the unhappy circumstances, she felt strengthened by his reaction. He knew about her problems with Alexander, he knew the truth or nearly all of it and he had her back.

"Well, enjoy your evening and give my best to the family," Dickie said, cutting off every attempt for further conversation. Isobel gave him a quick and grateful smile.

"Enjoy your evening," she said and walked past Matthew who seemed flabbergasted by the whole scene, but eventually followed his mother.

It was Alexander Ferguson who took his time to follow them. The evening had been more enjoyable than he had anticipated. Isobel had put up a good fight, but in the end, he had found a way to corner her. Alexander would bet his knighthood if the jewellery was a present from her grandmother. To him it looked more like a lover's gift. Could Lord Merton really be so foolish to waste something that probably had belonged to his family for decades to someone like her? Perhaps he was the romantic type and thought it chivalric to give his mistress something valuable like this. Or perhaps he was an idiot and had truly fallen for her. Whatever it was, things were shaping up and soon, very soon, he would be able to strike.

* * *

"A middle class nurse from Manchester. This is so like you." He heard the scorn in Ada's voice and as so many times before he simply decided to ignore it as long as possible. He just looked out of the car window and counted the street lamps they passed on their way home to Merton House. The more time he spent with his wife, the more he became sick of her. The dangerous and unsavoury decline of her health had not tamed her tongue. On the contrary, her suffering made her more spiteful than ever, and it was just the beginning. Things would become worse for her and therefore for him, too. The diagnose from the doctor had left him deeply concerned for their future, and he still needed to figure out how to proceed. Ada would soon need discreet and constant medical attention. Eventually he had to lock her up in Cavenham or he had to send her away. Both weren't options to her liking, but rather sooner than later it would come down to it.

He also had to make sure, somehow, that Isobel and Ada wouldn't meet again. They had to act even more careful from now on, because he wasn't sure if Ada wouldn't find a way to take out her unhappiness on Isobel as well. If he had to suffer from her acid mood, it was one thing, but Isobel didn't deserve any of it. Why, oh why, did she have to jewellery from his mother tonight of all nights? As happy as it made him that she finally decided to make use of it, the timing couldn't have been worse. Of course, Ada had instantly recognized the sapphires.

"Tell me one thing," Ada continued. "Did you take the jewellery from me to give it to her? Or perhaps you told him," she pointed to Ruggles in the front seat behind the wheel. "To steal it. How pathetic can one become?"

"Your illness is really affecting your brain," he countered casually, knowing pointing out her physical and mental weakness was her sore point. His remark didn't fail its purpose. The cold rage in her voice when she spoke again spoke volumes about her feelings. "I know what I saw. The woman is wearing my jewellery. Your mother gave it to me before she died. It's mine!"

"And you lost it again a few years later, because you were stupid enough to leave on the wrong bedside table."

"That doesn't give you the right to give it to one of your whores! But it's just like you to pick someone who's as plain as you for your afternoon entertainment."

"Watch your mouth!"

"You bastard! You won't tell me what to say or what to do!"

The care stopped and Ruggles opened the door for them. As always Ada refused to take Ruggles' hand while she climbed out, but once she was out, she looked him straight into the eyes and asked, "Does he at least share her with you? Or does he only allow you to watch?" Ruggles answer was a crooked eyebrow, but Dickie was fed up with her behaviour.

"That's enough!" Dickie grabbed her elbow and pulled her along up the stairs. She complained vividly, but he ignored her protest. A footman opened the door, but withdraw discreetly when as soon as he realized the couple was fighting.

Once they were inside Ada pulled her arm away, hauled off, and slapped him as hard as she could. She had done so before, but this time he really felt the hate she harboured for him deep down inside.

"You better go upstairs now or I'll do something I might not regret," he said in a low, controlled voice. The last thing he wanted was a scene in front of the servants.

"You will regret a lot of things," she hissed. "I promise you that and most of all, I hope the two of get what you deserve. If I have to suffer, why shouldn't you too?"

******tbc******

**Have a great weekend! **


	11. Maladie

**_Have a nice weekend you all! _**

**Chapter 11 - Maladie **

"**... the things that make us human often make us ill." Jonathan Rosen**

_Paris, 1918_

It was almost midnight, when Isobel closed the bedroom door and joined Dickie at the table. She replaced the almost burned out candle on the table with a new one and rubbed her tired eyes. During the evening there had been another German air strike that hadn't caused a lot of damage to Parisian houses, but had caused an outburst of power that still lasted. He had opened a bottle of wine be had found in the kitchen while he had cleaned the cupboard where Isobel had hid the body of Pommeroy's wife while the doctor had been treating Ruggles.

To say he felt exhausted was an understatement. He was tired like never before in his life, but knew he wouldn't sleep a wink. His hand hurt badly, but after he had taken off the bandage the pain was slowly subsiding. He actually blamed the soothing effect of the alcohol.

Without losing a word Isobel took the glass out of hand and emptied it with one gulp. He refilled the glass, wishing there was more than one bottle.

In the absence of proper wine glasses he had picked a simple water glass from the kitchen, something she didn't even seem to notice. He had to think of Ada who would never in a thousand years would be able to survive a hostage situation not to mention hide a corpse and take care of someone whose blood soaked her clothes.

"I think Ruggles's going to sleep through the night," she said after a minute of silence between them. "He's been lucky."

"He's also quite indestructible," he confirmed.

"Why didn't you take him to a hospital?" she asked.

"Because the reason he quit talking is a hospital. Something that happened to him in a hospital during the Boer War. Many years ago he made me promise not to bring him into hospital and I wanted to honour that promise."

"It almost got him killed," she said and it was obvious that she lacked the understanding for Ruggles' decision and Dickie's blind acceptance for it.

"I think that's a consequence he tolerates."

She stretched her aching back and shook her head, but eventually dropped the subject altogether. She examined his swollen hand let her finger ran over the sensitive scar. He flinched. "The doctor left pain medication here," she said as she released his hand. "I think you should use it as well."

"It's not so bad," he lied, because he didn't want to look weak in her eyes. Her part today had been a lot worse than his and it still nagged at his ego that his shot had missed Pommeroy's wife and Ruggles had to kill her. If his hand hadn't been injured, he wouldn't have missed his target and Ruggles wouldn't have had to kill for him. He now owed Ruggles another debt, perhaps one he wouldn't be able to repay during his lifetime.

"So, do all your friends carry an ankle holster?"

Her question amused him. "Let's say the war left its scars on Ruggles and one of them is paranoia. I used to make fun of his sense for precaution, but I won't do so again."

"Did you know he was married?" she asked.

"Pommeroy? No…."

She shifted on her seat, visibly uncomfortable with something. "What is it?" he asked.

"There's just something that I noticed when… when we took her downstairs."

"And what?" He tried to remember, if he had seen anything unusual, but wasn't it already mad enough that they had to wrap the woman's body into several blankets to dispose her in an empty apartment in the neighbourhood? On his way to the Doctor's office around the corner he had noticed the empty, half destroyed building and had figured it was a gift of God. The lack of electricity in the streets had also added to the success of their morbid task to get rid off the late Mrs Pommeroy. She lay in some kind of pantry in the back of the house. If they were lucky it would take days until someone found her. Days that would buy them time until Ruggles was well enough to leave Paris for good. It was a vain hope, but it was all they had got.

Isobel toyed with the glass in her hands. "When I rolled her into the cupboard, I saw something on her chest and arm. It was a rash."

"So?"

"I think she suffered from lues," she said calmly.

"Syphilis?" he asked shocked. Isobel nodded in response. "I've seen it before and now I think Ruggles perhaps did her a favour when he shot her. But I guess you know what means… or could mean."

His brain processed the information and he didn't like where his thoughts were leading him. "Go on…."

"If she had it, it's likely Mister Pommery suffered from it as well. Did you notice anything on him when you saw him in the hospital?"

"Not that I can think of... But…"

Some time ago he had read about the illness in question and there was a detail about Pommeroy that suddenly seemed to make sense.

"Perhaps his amnesia wasn't faked. Perhaps he was really losing his mind and his memory. It would explain why he recognized me and wrote to his wife before he died… perhaps he had one of his better moments..."

"Possibly," she agreed. "But what about your sister? Didn't you say he was her lover when he stole the jewellery from her?"

His stomach felt like a stone. His lie about the owner of the sapphires, his own bloody lie, was like a boomerang that came back to hit him. Had Ada ever suffered from sign of a social disease? He hadn't entered her bedroom in years and he didn't plan to do so ever again. After the birth of their youngest son they had mutually agreed to ceasing the part of their marriage that involved sexual intercourse and they had stuck to it - more or less. There had been one or two drunk occasions that he didn't like to remember and didn't want to repeat. He had no idea, if Ada had ever shown symptoms of syphilis and she certainly hadn't confided in him about her physical health.

"Very often the patients don't show any symptoms and years or decades pass before they realize they're ill," she continued. "And very often it's too late."

"I know," he said hoarsely. "I've read about it."

"You should talk to your sister when you're home. Or even better send her straight to a doctor."

"Home…," he repeated wearily. He had no desire to go home. He would rather live on the run with Isobel for the rest of his life, before he went back home to Ada and their miserable life together.

He groaned exhausted and reached out to take her hand. In the soft candle light he saw the ring she wore on her left hand. Her wedding band had always bothered him, but tonight it was all the more annoying to him. It reminded him of his own failure as a husband and the fact that Isobel wasn't his. There was still the possibility that somewhere else another man was waiting for her to come home. It was unlikely, but not impossible, and most of the time he had tried to ignore the nagging questions about the life that had led her to the north of France where he had found her again. Had she married the man who had so shamefully abandoned her when had trained as a nurse in South Africa? Had she born his children? Was he still alive, and what did she feel for him if he was? Did he treat her the way she deserved? She was the only woman in his life that had ever let him experience jealousy. It was a bewildering feeling, so very different from his usually composed emotional world that it was hard to contain.

After the two weeks they had spent together, it seemed unreal, but after today's violent events there was no way they could stay together for much longer. For their own safety they had leave Paris and he doubted life would be kind enough to allow them to find each other again. It taken them forty years and a big coincidence to meet in the Bretagne. It was nothing but a miracle that they had run into each other in the Red Cross office she worked in. How likely was it that something like this happened again? They lived in different parts of society, perhaps in different countries, and their own common thread was the war.

"Are you listening to me? Has the cat eaten your tongue as well?" Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't listened to her and came only back to reality when her free hand cupped his face. She tenderly ran her thumb over his chin and gave him a small smile.

"I'm sorry," he said and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. "It's just that a lot of things haven't turned out the way I wanted them to be. You and Ruggles almost got killed today. I brought you into terrible danger and I'm sorry for it!"

"Well, I agree that I didn't signed up for a day like this, but it wasn't your fault. Actually, I found you quite brave."

He scoffed and rubbed his aching hand with his thumb. "I used to be a better shot. If Ruggles hadn't been there…."

She leaned forward and kissed him, which silenced him effectively.

"Don't. We're alive. Ruggles will live. That's all that counts."

"Are you always this positive?" he asked. "We have to leave this place rather sooner than later. We aren't safe right now. We can only pray no one finds the body and no one saw or overheard us."

As so often when she felt the need to comfort him, she massaged the back of his neck. "You know, one day in the distant future, you can tell your grandchildren how about our little adventure or even better you write a novel about it. You'll make them proud."

He chuckled, but only half-amused. "Thank you, but the way things are, this is nothing but a naive dream. If I ever write it down, I would dedicate it to you and only you. Ruggles aside, you're the bravest person I know."

"I'm not brave," she said, her cheeks flushed. "I just go with the flow, live day by day, and hope to be of use."

"You're so much more than that." He kissed her once more and pulled her from her chair and onto his lap. She chuckled when he nibbled at her neck and wrapped her arms around him.

"Before you do anything, I have to remind you that our bedroom is occupied!"

"I guess, we have to improvise then," he answered and kissed her hungrily.

* * *

_London, 1920_

Isobel sat in Rosamund's drawing room and was reading a book to distract herself. After Matthew had excused himself for the afternoon, because he had a couple of appointments to keep, she was completely on her own. Aside from a hall boy who was downstairs, the servants were all gone until after tea time, which perfectly fitted her own plans.

In the morning Ruggles had delivered a note from Dickie. After their more or less spoiled encounter at the Criteriton the night before, he had asked for a private meeting as soon as it could be arranged. His message had sounded urgent and so Isobel had decided to summon him to Rosamund's house when Matthew was gone. It seemed safer to meet somewhere, where they were really on their own without fearing to be overseen.

On their way back to Belgravia Isobel had tried to figure out why Ada had given her such nasty glances. The answer had come to her when she had taken off the jewellery before she went to bed. Ada had recognized the gems and knew now that she and Dickie had a relationship. Back in France she had always sensed that he was married and she had also suspected that there had been more about the infamous Mister Pommeroy than he had wanted to admit to her. None of it had truly mattered to her, but now it seemed every detail he hadn't shared with her back then, was now coming back to haunt them.

As soon as the clock struck three o'clock she positioned herself close to the front door to notice when he arrived. As always when she expected him a nervous tickle possessed her and she anticipated the moment when she would see him without having to hide her joy about it. He was right on time and looked out of breath and pale when she opened the door for him.

"Are you all right?" she asked worried when she led him into the beautiful drawing room.

"Don't worry," he said, as he kissed her cheek. "It's just been a busy day."

"Did something happen?" She cupped his cheek with her hand and gently stroked his cheek bone, which caused him to flinch. Alarmed, she took a closer look at his face.

"I'm sorry," he said and rubbed his cheekbone.

"What is it?" she asked simultaneously when she finally noticed the pale bruise on his cheek. "Did you get into a fight?" she asked in utter disbelief.

"Not quite," he said and cleared his throat. He turned his face away, but she grabbed for his arm.

"It was Ada, wasn't it?"

"It was nothing," he tried to soothe her. "It's just that she something she wasn't supposed to see and went berserk."

"The jewellery," Isobel concluded flatly. "Oh Dickie, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have…"

He shook his head. "It's not your fault. Jewels are meant to be worn, though I admit the timing couldn't have been worse."

"Oh dear…." Unhappily she sank down on the sofa. She reached out, silently asking him to join her, which he did after a short hesitation. "I can't believe she hit you."

"Oh, it wasn't the first time she has lashed out at me, and I gather it won't be the last. She's always been very fierce when it came to what she considered hers. I'm afraid things have never been this ugly between us, but at this point I'm past caring."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "She's your wife and she's very ill."

"She is ill, all right," he agreed. "And still…. I can't feel sorry for her. She brought it all onto herself. I'm afraid… her mental condition won't improve. On the contrary and there's nothing that can be done about it."

Isobel swallowed. The description of his life sounded utterly dreadful. She suspected Dickie wasn't as unfeeling about Ada as he pretended to be, but she still felt sorry for the woman - and much more for him.

"What is her diagnoses then?" she asked carefully.

"Actually, that's the reason I'm here," he said, visibly uncomfortable with the subject.

"I'm all ears."

"As the doctor told us yesterday afternoon, Ada suffers from neurosyphilis."

Isobel's heart skipped as beat. "Golly."

"You can say that again."

"Has she ever…?" she didn't know how to say it, without making this more embarrassing than it already was.

"Apparently not. I asked her, but she didn't give me a very sufficient answer to be honest."

"I see…," she took his right hand, ran her thumb over the scar, and asked. "Mister Pommeroy?"

He looked up, met her eyes. "I suspect so, but does it matter, whether it was him or someone else?"

She shrugged. "That depends on you, I guess…."

He sighed and to her puzzlement he said, "I'm sorry."

"What about?" she asked.

"Back in France I never told you the whole truth about Pommeroy. When we met again I had no idea how things would turn out between us and what I would find out about Pommeroy. So I thought it best, if no one knew that he had been Ada's lover. It was all a ghastly and distasteful affair when he stole the jewels and had the impertinence to write to her and make fun of her stupidity."

"It's all right," she assured him gently. "It happened a long time ago."

"It's still my fault," he said. "If I hadn't been such a coward back then…"

"Stop it," she begged him. "It's not your fault. Ada made her decisions and you made yours. No one's to blame for anything."

"If it were only that easy…" he cleared his throat. "What matters is that I want you to see a doctor. Just to be sure…. It is highly unlikely that she infected me, but still..."

"Oh Dickie…" she broke off and liked her lips. "I'm sure I'm fine…."

He cut her off, "You said yourself that many people don't notice any symptoms until it's too late."

"I know, but..." she made a small pause. She wasn't sure how to tell him, without worrying him. He wasn't the only one who hadn't told her everything about his past. She had her own secrets, her own burdens to carry like everyone else. "I've had regular check ups over the years, because of a… pre-existing condition. I'm healthy as an ox!"

"What condition?" he asked puzzled. "What didn't you tell me?"

"Nothing to worry you about. Just know that I'm fine." She leaned her forehead against his and squeezed the muscles on the back of his neck with her finger tips. He was so tense, so afraid, and she wished she could take that burden from him. "I'm fine and so are you," she whispered.

"Oh, how I wish it were true," he said with a pensive sigh. She gently pushed up his chin, gave him a smile, and kissed him tenderly.

"I've been thinking about something else," he admitted. "I promised myself not to tell you, before I've spoken to a solicitor, but now…"

"What do you mean?" she asked warily.

"I want to divorce Ada."

She was speechless. She had never expected him to end his marriage.

"Dickie…. Are you sure?" The only idea was breathtaking. Most people of his statues didn't even consider a divorce. It came with big personal sacrifice and social condemnation.

"I'll make sure, she has everything she needs, especially towards the end, but I can't stand being married to her anymore."

"But if her health worsens as quickly as expected, it's likely she's dead, before the proceedings are over and done with," she pointed out. "Perhaps you'll risk anything for nothing. Please, think about it." His plans worried her, because she didn't want him to get in over his head. There was so much to consider for him. There was the estate, his sons… his reputation.

He ignored her concerns and kissed the knuckles of her hand. "I want to be married to you," he said. "That is, if you want me."

She gasped when the full impact of his words hit her like a steam engine. He had spoken of love before, but she had never thought, he would go as far as proposing to her as long as he was married. She had come to terms with the fact that she was his mistress. The woman who could share his life from the sideline. And now this… she had no words to express her feelings and she didn't know how to react. It was just too much to comprehend and she felt how tears shot into her eyes.

"Isobel, Darling, are you all right?" he asked, when he registered the lonely tear that was slowly running down her cheek. "I overdid it, didn't I?" he asked crestfallen. "I shouldn't have…. Please, forgive me."

He released her hand and rose quickly. Isobel, still paralysed, only noticed his withdrawal when he picked up his hat and coat.

"What are you doing?" she asked dumbfounded.

"I'm taking my leave," he said on his way the door. "I think it's better that way, before this becomes even more emotionally charged than it already is."

She got to her feet and rushed after him into the hallway. "Please, wait!" she said frantically and grabbed for his elbow.

"You can't leave now…. Not before you listen to what I have to say!"

*****tbc*****


	12. Cat-and-Mouse

**Happy Easter, my dear readers. Enjoy the weekend! **

**Chapter 12 - Cat-and-mouse**

_London, 1920_

"You can't leave now…. Not before you listen to what I have to say!"

Matthew heard his mother's words and the hasty steps on the marble floor and falsely believed they were meant for him. He was late after he had realized he had forgotten several files and had rushed back to get them. He had hoped to slip in without being seen by anyone. He looked up from his leather case, was about to tell his mother, he had no time, but the words got stuck in his throat when he noticed her words had never been directed at him. He saw Isobel rushing after Lord Merton, noticed with growing puzzlement that she grabbed for his arm and pleaded with him to listen to her. The whole scene was so very bewildering that he withdrew behind one of the grand pillars to understand what was going on. As far as he knew Isobel and Mary's godfather were almost complete strangers who had seen each other perhaps twice. And now… it sounded as if they were well acquainted - very well acquainted and they were arguing.

"Please, Isobel… Let's not make this anymore embarrassing for any of us. I think it's obvious that I was mistaken about…."

"You're the one who makes this embarrassing!"

Matthew leaned against the cold marble, still wondering if he was having a daydream.

"I mean it, Dickie. Don't look at me like that."

"I'm actually wondering, if we're having our first real argument."

"Well, we've argued before, but never about anything as important as this." She lowered her voice and Matthew had to concentrate to hear what she was saying next, "You know very well how I feel about you…"

He cut her off, "Do I?" he whispered angrily. "At times I think I do, but you never say it."

She sighed and for a time that seemed endless he heard nothing. Matthew was ready to believe the two had left the hallway for good, when he heard his mother speaking again.

"I love you," she said in a low and tender voice. "Which is exactly the reason why I don't want you to make any overhasty decisions, especially not now as things turned out ot be."

"Does that mean you will consider my proposal…. You will wait?" he asked.

"Always…."

Again silence fell over the marbled floor. Matthew risked a glance. He swallowed when he saw his mother and Lord Merton standing near the staircase in a close embrace. His hands lay on her hips and he kissed her forehead. It looked so natural, so filled with intimacy that he didn't dare to interrupt them. Had he ever seen his parents like this? He couldn't remember and decided not to think about it now. His brain was still busy comprehending what his eyes and ears communicated to him. He turned away into the safety that the pillar provided him. He needed time to think, time to understand. Lord Merton was a married man and he maintained a... relationship of any kind whatsoever with his mother… His mother who had just declared her love for him.

"Can't you stay?" Isobel asked in a low voice. "Just for an hour or two? Who knows when I can see you again."

Matthew closed his eyes. Until now he had hoped they had kept their liaison at least chaste, but obviously he wasn't even granted this illusion.

"No one's here," she added. "Matthew won't be back until tonight. Please stay."

If it only were true, he thought bitterly. For a second he contemplated to leave his hiding place to disrupt their rendezvous, but at this point he simply lacked the courage to do. Facing her… them meant he had to face her… immoral behaviour, her biggest flaw.

After Alexander had told him about his father's first marriage he had believed there were no more secrets between him and his mother. No more lies, no more things unsaid between them. He had been wrong and that knowledge pained him more than he could have ever imagined.

* * *

Two hours later Matthew sat in Alexander Ferguson's hotel suite and gulped his second whiskey. The alcohol helped to calm his nerves and that he had someone to talk about his discovery who wasn't a Crawley helped him to make sense of it. Alexander was sympathetic, but to Matthew's amazement he didn't seem very surprised.

"Well…," he said as he sank into the armchair near the fireplace. "My instincts haven't fooled me then."

"How do you mean?"

"I saw them together at your wedding and later I saw them in London when I took a walk in St. James' Park. I think that was during your honeymoon. They seemed well-acquainted."

"Did they?" Matthew asked without trying to hide his sarcasm and finished his whiskey. "How could I be so blind? The more I think about it, the more it all makes sense."

"What makes sense?" Alexander asked curiously.

"Her mood swings, her frequent visits to London…." He placed the glass on the table near his seat and nodded when Alexander offered to refill it.

"Thanks, but that's the last one. I think I'll need a clear head tonight."

The older man shrugged. "As you wish…. But will you do about it?"

Matthew wrinkled his forehead. "What can I do? I can't lock her up in the attic to keep her from seeing him. You know her. She's as stubborn as a mule, especially when it comes to her independence."

Deliberately slow Alexander filled his pipe and lit it up. "Her independence aside, you're the future Earl of Grantham and she's your mother. She's risking the family's reputation with her reckless behaviour."

As much as he hated hearing it, Alexander wasn't completely wrong. But what bothered him even more was that his mother had obviously fallen for a man who couldn't offer her any kind of common future. He was married and as horrid as Lady Merton probably was, Matthew doubted the Baron would leave her. Man of his generation never left their wives. They looked for love and comfort somewhere else and he simply hated the fact that his mother had become someone's mistress. It felt degrading to think of her as someone who spent her afternoons waiting for a man to visit her who would leave her again after a few hours to have tea with his wife. It couldn't go on like that. He had to make sure of it.

"A guinea for your thoughts," Alexander said, interrupting Matthew's morbid thoughts. He took the whiskey and drank it.

"I doubt they're worth that much," he said, his head spinning, as he put the glass down.

* * *

_South Africa, 1881_

It was their last evening together and they spent it in his quarters in the Ambassador's residence. Isobel had given up wondering why he could come and leave as he pleased or why he had unrestricted access to the Ambassador's exquisite wine cellar.

She was too grateful for the time she could spent far away from her own quarters and from the hospital. Ever since the head nurse had been notified about Isobel's request for a transfer, she was even more hostile towards her and tried to harass her whenever she found a fitting opportunity. The fact that Isobel was taking the high road and ignored every attempt to bully her, did nothing to stop the woman's scorn for her. Tonight she could barely believe that the head nurse and her harassment were already a part of the past.

The next morning she would be transferred to a field hospital and as much as she anticipated to leave this place, she was wistful about it at the same time. The work in field hospital would be harder and more of a challenge than everything she had ever experienced before. It would test her to the limits and - as she realized now that she was leaning backwards against the headboard next to him - she would miss Captain Grey and the time they had spent together.

He was her only friend in this alien and beautiful country. He was a sharp-minded conversation partner and attentive lover combined in one person. She felt incredibly attracted to him and every time they shared the same room her body reacted with unmistakable desire for him. In a way her carnal feelings shamed her, because her mind was still very much occupied with Reginald Crawley.

Reginald Crawley who hadn't written a single letter to her since her arrival.

Reginald Crawley who was seeing another woman.

Reginald Crawley who seemed to have abandoned her because she had dared to challenge him.

If she could only overcome her feelings for him. How much easier her life would be if she were completely free of him… Not that she actually believed she had a future with the man who shared her bed. As much as they had in common when it came to their interests and their believe in right and wrong, they lived in different worlds and had different backgrounds. In another world they would make a fine couple, but times and circumstances made anything else than a secret affair impossible.

She looked at him and had to smile. Tonight he seemed as preoccupied as she was. It was after all their last evening and every attempt to make any less mawkish hadn't been very successful so far.

What was waiting for them after tonight? The horror of the war and once it was over and they came out of it alive they had to endure the horrors of their complicated lives at home. She had to face a renegade fiance and he had to face a fiancé who didn't love him and whom he didn't love either. Thinking this through she had perhaps made the better bargain. At least she would be free to marry someone else, if she wanted to. He had no other choice left. He was stuck with the woman chosen for him.

It filled with her regret to think that he could end up being trapped in loveless marriage for the rest of his life. He deserved better. So much better.

"A guinea for your thoughts," he said as refilled her glass. The red wine was heavy and she hoped she wouldn't regret drinking it in the morning when she had to be ready to leave. The last thing she needed for her new assignment was a hangover.

"Will you really marry her?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think you heard me," she said and ran her finger over the edge of her wine glass. "Will you marry her, even though you don't love her?"

"I guess, I will. It's been fixed for ages."

"Plans can change. Mine did."

"Lucky you. In my world plans barely change - unless there's an earthquake. How many earthquakes have you witnessed in England... lately?"

She grinned, "Not too many I'm afraid."

"There you have your answer." He said with a nonchalance that was almost scarry.

"Is it really that simple?" she asked.

"It is. It's like the war. You better not miss your shot, because there might be second attempt to save your own life." He gave her a curious glance. "What's brought this on?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "Must be the wine. It makes me sentimental."

"Well, we can't have that. Not on our last evening," he said and took the glass away from her.

"And what do your suggest to change that?" she asked coyly.

"I'm sure we can think of something…." He let his hand sneak over the sheet she had gathered around her naked body and pulled away. Slowly, ever so slowly, the smooth fabric slided down, revealing her naked skin.

* * *

_London, 1920_

When Matthew returned to Rosamund's that night, he found his mother in the drawing room. It was an image he remembered vividly from his childhood. She was sitting on the sofa near the fireplace, her legs tucked underneath her, and her nose hid in a book. The soft light of the lamps and the fire bathed the room into a rich orange scenery that reminded him of beautiful sunset. It looked so peaceful, so well known that he caught himself thinking that the scene he had witnessed hours ago had been nothing but a bad dream.

She looked up when she heard him entering. When he was young she had always given him a smile when he entered the room. Tonight she didn't. "There you are!" she said crossly. "You missed dinner." He remembered it now. He had promised to be home for dinner, but his conversation with Alexander had taken hours and the whiskey had spoiled his appetite. He also felt a little dizzy, which made it much harder to think straight.

"I know. I was busy…"

"You could have given us a call," she scolded him. "They went through a lot of effort to make our stay as comfortable as possible!" She put her book aside and slipped into her shoes. He watched her and found it somehow peculiar that she was the one who was angry. He was angry. He was angry with her, angry with Lord Merton, and the fact that they had used Mary's aunt's home to commit adultery.

"Actually, I thought it wouldn't matter if I was here," he shot back. "I'm sure you were not short of entertainment while I was gone." He sank heavily into one of the chairs and stared at Isobel who seemed to realize that he was quite intoxicated.

"I'm used to eat alone. Thank you very much."

"I wasn't talking about supper, Mother."

She narrowed her eyebrows and seemed lost between rising anger and honest irritation.

"So, what are you talking about?"

"I was talking about your afternoon caller. This gentleman you so happily entertained, while you thought me away in a meeting."

His statement hit her unexpected. The colour of her face changed into a deep red before it faded and became white.

"What caller do you mean?" she asked, after a brief pause, in which she probably tried to comprehend how he could know anything about it.

"Let's not play cat and mouse, Mother. I'm talking about Lord Merton."

She swallowed and it was one of the rare times he found her speechless and so he continued. "I had forgotten some papers and came here to collect them, and, I'm sorry to say, they weren't everything I came upon."

"Matthew, listen…."

"No, I don't want to listen," he said and swallowed. His head felt heavier by the minute and it wasn't easy to utter the words he had to say. "I've seen and heard enough to last me for a lifetime."

"It's not what you think."

He laughed bitterly, "Unless you and Lord Merton went upstairs to admire the wallpaper in your bedroom, I very much doubt it's not what I think."

"Don't be vulgar!"

"I try not to, but you make it very hard for me to be more subtle."

She drew a deep breath and rose from the sofa. "Why don't we have this conversation tomorrow morning when you're sober?"

"Being sober won't change my opinion of your affair with a married man. This can't go on, Mother. It's disgraceful." He pushed himself up, but realized he wasn't very steady on his feet.

"I stand by my words. We'll talk about this tomorrow." She grabbed her novel and went to the door. Before she opened the door, she turned back to him and said, "It's my life, Matthew, and I will live it every way I please."

******tbc******

_Oh, oh…. What will Matthew do to keep Isobel and Dickie apart? Will Sir Alexander play a part in it? How will Lady Merton's illness affect things? So many questions…. Let me know what you think!_


	13. Cannon

**Hello, dear readers. Back again with a new chapter. Enjoy and don't forget to drop me a review. **

** Sarah: You keep asking for a scene that describes the reunion of Isobel and Dickie in France in 1918. I'm not sure I'll be able to make it fit, because I decided early on to follow each of the three storylines from a certain point. I'm not sure I want to break that rule - at least not at this point. I also didn't think the meeting was that much interest - I was wrong, it seems. To me it's one of these off screen moments everyone imagines differently, so perhaps it's better I don't ruin it for you LOL **

**Important is they met and they knew each other from the moment they laid eyes on each other ;-) **

**Chapter 13 - Cannon **

_Downton, 1920_

"Manchester? You want me to go back to Manchester?"

Matthew closed the door to the drawing room and crossed the room, his hands deeply hidden in his pockets. Mother and son had just returned to Crawley House and neither of them had even taken off their coats.

The journey back home had been unpleasant and frosty. He had more or less given her the ultimate silent treatment, which was unlike him. At first she had hoped it was his hangover, but now that she watched him pacing up and down like som caged tiger, Isobel figured that he had wanted to punish her. During his brooding silence on their trip, he must have had the absurd idea to resettle her to their hometown. If the situation weren't so serious she would laugh about it. She figured it wouldn't advance things between them, if she showed him how little she thought of his plans. He only wanted to protect her, but she didn't need his protection. She knew what she was doing and she was ready to accept the risks and the immanent heartache.

"I think it's best, if you went home. You've always liked Manchester, haven't you?"

Isobel couldn't remember a time in their lives when she hadn't been able to communicate to her son in a proper manner, but she had to accept the fact that it had come this far.

"I happen to like our present home as well and I don't see why…."

"Promise me then, you won't see him again - at least not in private."

She shook her head. "This isn't how this works. I'm your mother and not the other way round. I won't accept orders from someone whose diapers I changed."

He closed the distance between them and hissed, "Don't you see what this is will do to you when people find out? And believe me they will, because there's always someone to gossip! You'll be the laughing stock of the village!"

"Don't you overrate my importance?" she scoffed. "I'm not the Dowager or Mister Travis wife."

"You're a member of the Crawley family who owns everything around here. I can't let you ruin your reputation. It'll reflect badly on everyone in the Abbey!"

She raised her eyebrows, "I can't believe my own ears… I had no idea your future earldom got to your head so quickly after the wedding!"

"This has nothing to do with my marriage or my future!" he returned sharply. "This is about you and your life and your future. I can't allow you to throw it all away for a man who can't and won't offer you anything, but…." He broke off and blushed.

"You know nothing about me or him and I won't discuss my relationship with him with you. You're obnoxiously biased and narrow-minded - just like your father could be when it suited him." She knew as soon as the last words had left her mouth, she shouldn't have said them. They were way below the belt; she saw it written all over his face. He made a step back and drew a deep breath.

"Is there anything else you need to get off your chest concerning my father?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"No. Matthew, listen…"

"What else are you not telling me? You're not honest with me, at least not completely!"

For a second she contemplated to tell him the whole story of Dickie and herself, but she feared it was the wrong time to do so. He was too hurt, too busy with his anger to listen. She doubted he would find it in his heart to understand her.

"I want you to go now," she said instead. "Go home to Mary and have dinner with her and the others."

"The family expects you to join us."

"But I won't. Not tonight. Tell them, I have a headache."

He seemed amused. "You're not quite the type for a headache. They will know something is wrong."

"I'm sure you can think of something. A man with a law degree will certainly come up with a suitable excuse for his mother." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. It was proof enough for her to know that staying home was a good idea. Otherwise she would only get caught in an argument with the Dowager. She didn't need this kind of fireworks right now.

Matthew was visibly struggling with his temper, but kept his countenance. "All right, Mother. As you wish."

Without further greetings he went to the door. His exit without a proper farewell angered her and so she added, "There's no reason to be so nervous. Lord Merton's still in London. I won't have to hide anyone in my closet in case I should get an unannounced visitor."

She had barely finished her sentence, when someone knocked at the door. Matthew, caught between rage and surprise, jerked back. The maid peeked in with the Dowager on her heels.

"Lady Grantham, Madam," the maid announced and Matthew tried his best to smile, but he failed.

"Cousin Violet," Isobel said, when Matthew missed his chance to greet his wife's grandmother. "Did you hide behind the bushes to welcome us?"

Violet smirked, "Oh, on the contrary. I was passing by when I saw the maid with the luggage and thought to myself, say hello."

"How kind of you," Isobel replied. "Can I offer you some tea? I would like a cup."

"Only if I'm not interrupting…. Something." She looked from Matthew to Isobel and back. Registering that Violet had already spotted the tension between them, Isobel ordered some tea. She decided to blame Matthew's hungover for his strange behaviour, if Violet would be so indiscreet to poke her nose into it.

"You're not," Isobel assured her. "Please, come in. Matthew, was there anything you wanted to say before you leave?"

"No," he answered stiffly. "I'll see you tomorrow. Cousin Violet…" He nodded at Violet who watched him with a rather perplexed expression on her face.

"What's wrong with him?"

Isobel shrugged, "It's a mixture of a hungover and a bruised ego, I guess." Violet sank into the chair near the fireplace. She made herself comfortable and looked like a cat who had eaten the canary.

"I see… anyway, I'm here because I have news."

"What kind of news?" Isobel asked and watched Violet slowly taking off her gloves. There was a delicious expression on her face that sounded Isobel's alarm bells.

"News about Lady Merton. I thought you might want to know, what's going on at Cavenham Park."

"Well, I don't."

Violet rolled her eyes in utter exasperation. "Oh, please. Can we just skip the pretense and talk like adults? We both know perfectly well, what is going on between you and Lord Merton. So does his wife and so does your son. Or why else would he makes such a fuss? Sons are always delicate when it comes to their mother's private life. Ask Robert!"

Isobel didn't answer. She pursed her lips, hoping to find a believable way to deny everything the Dowager had just said. She couldn't. She sank into the other chair and removed her gloves, defeated.

"What is it, you want to tell me?"

Violet acknowledged Isobel's ordered retreat with a crooked eyebrow. "Whatever Lady Merton's mysterious illness maybe, it's very likely to be fatal."

"I know. She's been treated by a specialist in London, but there isn't much to be done about it, I'm afraid."

"Is it…. Cancer?"

"No."

"But you know what it is."

"I do."

"You should write mystery novels for a living. You know how to string along the suspense."

"I can't tell you! I made the promise to keep it to myself. So, please don't pester me!"

The maid knocked and brought in the tea and some cake. The interruption gave Isobel time to think about how much she really wanted to tell Violet of all people.

"I can accept that," Violet continued their conversation after the maid had left again. "But I think you need someone to confide in before you burst, especially now that Matthew got wind of it and will do whatever he can to keep you away from Dickie Merton. He looked quite determined when he left."

"Oh, he is determined, but then he doesn't know everything. I can understand he's angry."

"So, will you tell me?" Violet asked gently. "God knows, I've been keeping more secrets than a priest in the midst of a den of iniquity."

"Why doesn't that sound very reassuring?" Isobel wondered dryly, which in turn made Violet chuckle, "I think you need to figure out who's on your side and who not. If you want to win this fight, you need an alliance."

"I'm hardly going to war." She poured a cup of tea for Violet and gave it to her.

"You only said that because you don't know Lady Merton as well as I do. Do you actually think she'll lie down and die peacefully, when she knows her husband already has chosen her successor?"

Violet had made a valid point and Isobel knew it, even if it was hard to acknowledge it.

"So, what do you suggest? Should I poison her medicine?"

Violet chuckled, "I was thinking about something much more subtle, but it never hurts to know all the facts, before one starts to make a plan of battle."

All the facts. Isobel sighed and contemplated Violet's statement. She had manoeuvred herself between a rock and a hard stone and perhaps it was good to have someone to talk to. Someone with experience and foresight, even if she had never expected the Dowager Countess of Grantham to be that person.

* * *

_London_

Sir Alexander Ferguson had patiently waited for Lord Merton to leave Merton House, before he approached the front door. As it was his manner, he was perfectly prepared when the butler who opened the door told him, her ladyship wasn't expecting a visitor and therefore wouldn't receive him or anyone else. He gave the servant a small envelope with a one pound note hidden underneath.

"Please, tell her my name is Sir Alexander Ferguson. We have a common friend. I'm sure she will change her mind, once she read my note."

The butler looked unconvinced, but asked Ferguson in. While he waited in the foyer, he did his best to keep his excitement in check. Never, not in a million years, he had believed that Isobel would make it this easy for him. She had always been bold and arrogant, but inviting her lover into a family member's home was reckless - even for her standards. Oh, how he remembered the days when she had made his sister's life a living hell, because she had gone after Reginald like a cat in the heat. Well, the leopard never changed his spots. If Lady Merton had any pride she would want to keep Isobel out of her husband's bed. He doubted Matthew would be successful in this attempt to control his mother, but a war at multiple fronts would be too much for Isobel to handle. Not even Napoleon Bonaparte had won a war on multiple fronts and neither would Isobel Turnbull.

"Lady Merton is waiting for you in the drawing room," the butler announced. Alexander smile broadened and he thanked the servant for his kindness with another gracious tip. Everything was falling into place.

* * *

_Downton _

One week later, Isobel found herself in the Abbey for a small dinner party. At first she hadn't been very keen to attend, because since their argument after their arrival from London she hadn't exchanged one friendly word with Matthew. The growing distance to her son was worrying her and started to cause her sleepless nights. She could stand physical distance, but since he was alive there had never been an emotional rift between them. He was her oldest and her only child and being at odds with him was the worst feeling she had experienced since the news about his war injury. In a corner of her heart she still hoped he would come to his senses and at least listen to her, without judging her. Perhaps she needed to give him the time to calm down.

She hadn't heard from Dickie either, which disturbed her more than she wanted to admit to herself. She feared that despite his proposal and his wish for a divorce, Ada and her illness were tearing him away from her. She missed him and she missed her son and she hated to think she had to choose between them. After her argument with Matthew she had written him a short letter, asking him to stay away, but she already regretted her note. Perhaps he thought, she was abandoning him in favour of her son while all she wanted was for everyone to come back to their senses.

After her arrival she stood with Cora and Violet near the fireplace while the men were stuck in a corner near the piano. Isobel noticed with growing amusement that they had lively discussion about the upcoming cricket match. Robert was a fanatic whose high hopes for his team were usually destroyed after a few innings. No one had the heart to tell Robert that he was a hopeless captain and the team doomed to lose.

"It's Robert's obsession," Cora explained. "After their ugly loss last year against the village, he's determined to win - at all costs."

"Yes, he's even invited a potential player tonight, because there's one place in the house team that's still vacant," Violet said and Isobel noticed the meaningful emphasis on the word 'player', but couldn't make sense of it. It was Carson who gave her the answer when he announced the next guest for the evening.

"The Lord Merton."

The family turned their heads and Robert was so keen to welcome his guest that no one but Violet noticed the wide smile on Isobel's face and Matthew's anger.

"Did he ever tell you, he was the best bowler in the county in his youth?" Violet murmured behind her.

"No… I don't think so," Isobel said without taking her eyes off of him.

"Well, now you know it. Robert's quite determined to get him into his team."

"But Matthew will…."

"Swallow it," Violet concluded dryly. "He needs Robert to go along with his plans for the estate. He won't upset him by dismissing the best cricket player available."

Isobel shook her head, "Did you plant this idea into his head?"

Violet ignored Isobel's question and mingled with the small group around the new guest. Isobel watched them, wondering what exactly Violet wished to accomplish. She had always known the woman was a brilliant schemer, but tonight she had truly outdone herself.

* * *

_South Africa, 1881_

The work in the field hospital was even worse than Isobel had expected it. Yet, it wasn't the blood, the wounded, the horrible smell of dying soldiers, the overworked medical staff that drove her close to the edge. She was losing weight, felt sick every day, and felt tired. She slept like a stone and woke up without feeling rested.

It was the noise. The endless cannon fire. The granates. The sound of a cannonball hitting someone or something. The screams of the nurses when a shot hit too close to home. The sound of prayers that seemed useless because the killing never stopped.

Every day followed a routine of sameness, made of blood, desperation, and fear. It helped her to forget. The more she was involved in the work, the less she thought about Reginald or Richard Grey. Both men were far away and almost unreal in retrospect. She forced herself to do what was expected of her and what the soldiers deserved. She did her best to work hard and to be kind, but even her fellow nurses registered that something was wrong with her. She dismissed every appeal to see a doctor - until she had no other choice.

One night after a shift she stepped outside to catch some fresh air. Her head was spinning from the smell of narcotics and she felt so sick that the feeling in her throat was threatening to choke her.

She bent forward, tried to catch her breath. She heard the screaming and felt the sudden heat, before the noise of the explosion. The blast was breathtaking. Then there was the heat of the fire and then darkness fell over her and covered her like a cloak.

* * *

_Downton, 1920_

The dinner had been a smooth and pleasant affair. Matthew, though quiet, was part of the conversation while Isobel did her best not to look at Dickie and concentrated on chatting with Robert and Mary.

"I think we should have our coffee in the drawing room," Cora said when the dinner was over.

"Why don't we play a game of cannon?" Robert asked Matthew, Tom, and Dickie. "I told Carson to make sure the billiard table is in place for tonight. It's been a while."

"Oh, Papa, admit it. You only want to blueprint your tactic for the cricket match," Mary said when she followed him and the others outside.

"Well, what can I say?" Robert sighed. "The dignity of this house is threatened."

"Please, Robert!" Cora playfully slapped his wrist. "This is not a war, just cricket."

"Cricket's as serious as a war!"

The small assembly parted. The men were headed towards the small library, while the women were on their way to the drawing room.

"Tom, Robert, could I have a word?" Violet asked. The men stopped and Robert and Tom exchanged a dumbfounded glance.

"What is it, Mama?" Robert asked.

"As I said, I want to talk to you. I'm sure Matthew and Lord Merton will be able to spare you for a moment, won't you?" She gave both men a look that demanded no objection.

"Of course," Matthew and Dickie said simultaneously, giving one another a taxing glance.

"Very well, then." Robert and Tom hesitated, but finally did as ordered and followed Violet into the library. The others shook their heads and headed into the drawing room. Isobel was the one who took her time before she joined the others. She watched her son and lover vanishing around the corner, wishing there was something she could do or say to make this less uncomfortable than it already was…

******tbc*******

**Have a nice weekend!**


	14. Traps

**Chapter 14 - Traps **

_Downton, 1920_

Matthew felt trapped. At this point he wasn't sure who had outsmarted him. His mother, the Dowager Countess or Lord Merton himself. It annoyed him to think Violet could be the culprit in this, because it meant she was aware of the affair between his mother and Dickie Merton and perhaps even approved of it. And when she knew it who else did? So far he had done his best to keep his concerns a secret from Mary, but he had the feeling she already knew something was bothering him. He would have to think about it later, because a private conversation between him and his mother's lover was undeterrable now that they both were stuck in the small library while Violet did her best to keep Robert away as long as possible.

"I hope it wasn't my mother who has arranged this little meeting," Matthew started the conversation and picked one of the queue from the wall.

"It wasn't," the Baron said with an amused smile twitching around his lips. "As you well know, your mother prefers a much more direct approach to sort things out."

"I guess, that's true," Matthew felt forced to admit. He gave Dickie a second queue and started preparing the billiard balls. Robert had suggested a game of cannon. How very fitting, Matthew thought bitterly as he sorted out the billiard balls they needed.

"As a matter of fact, it was Lady Grantham who offered to help me in my cause and when Robert invited me, I saw my chance and took it. Last week I got a rather disturbing letter from your mother and I think, it's time you give her a break."

Matthew raised his eyebrow. "Are you saying this is my fault?" he asked, ready for a fight.

"I'm saying, she's quite unhappy with the way you treated her after you found out about our relationship."

"So, you blame me," Matthew concluded. "Well, I do blame you, which makes us even."

"I can comprehend your concern for you mother. I really do. I was close to my mother, too. I know what it feels like when you want to protect the one you love, but I can assure you, the last thing I have in mind is to hurt Isobel."

It gave Matthew a stitch when Lord Merton used his mother's first name, but he did his best to hide it.

"That sounds quite noble, but I beg to differ. As you said, she prefers to deal with things in an open manner. A secret relationship with a married man is not her style."

"What did she tell you about us?" Dickie asked quietly.

Matthew frowned. So far he hadn't really listened to anything his mother had to say on the matter. He hadn't wanted to hear any kind of excuse or explanation. He feared it could weaken his firm wish to keep his mother away from a situation that was bound to make her life more miserable than happy.

"Not much," he answered vaguely.

"I see."

Matthew fished a coin from the small pocket of his vest and showed it to the Baron.

"Head," Dickie said.

He threw the coin and Dickie won. Reluctantly Matthew yielded him precedence.

"What is there to say anyway? In my experience things like that always develop in a certain manner and they end up in a dead end. We both know, you won't leave your wife, which makes my mother the eternal second choice. I don't want that for her."

Dickie's queue hit the white ball, which precisely hit its aim. "I'm glad to hear how much you care for your mother's well being. I want you to know that I've talked to a solicitor last week. I've been contemplating a divorce, but it's very likely Ada will be dead before anything's settled in court."

"I had no idea, she's ill." Matthew realized how flatly he sounded. This developments was completely new to him and he wondered what other information he was missing.

"She's fatally ill. The doctors don't think she'll last until Christmas, but, of course, no one can sure about anything."

"Does my mother know about this?"

"Of course. She knows everything. Your turn." Dickie stepped away from the table and helped himself for a whiskey.

"Since when is this going on?" Matthew asked without moving. He still couldn't fathom how these two people could have fallen for each other in such a short amount of time. Mary and he had been married for about three months and as far as he knew his mother and Lord Merton met at the dinner the family had been holding a few days before the wedding. "How can two people go from 'Hello, nice to meet you' to 'I'll leave my dying wife for you' within three months?"

Dickie didn't answer and Matthew took his silence as an answer. "There's a twist to this and I want to know what it is."

Dickei gave him along and estimating glance. "That's something you should discuss with your mother."

"Why?"

"It's not my place to discuss it with you."

"Do you love her?"

"More than words can say."

"Well then, if you mean it, and I think perhaps you do, it shouldn't be too hard to make one promise to me."

Dickie hesitated. "I'm afraid that will rather depend on the promise," he said. "Your turn."

* * *

_South Africa, 1881 _

Isobel woke up with a splitting headache. Her head ached so badly that she feared to get sick instantly, but as soon as she tried to move her head up, she felt a cold cloth pressed against her forehead. It muffled the pain and she groaned.

"Lie still," a male voice told her. "You've had some bad injuries. One of them is a concussion. Your head must hit a rock when you fell. You also have a cut near your temple." His accent sounded as if he were from Northern Ireland. She recognized the brogue from some of her fellow nurses, but she couldn't place his voice. Who was he?

"What happened?" she asked, not daring to open her eyes. She had the feeling that she was still in the field hospital. She recognized the smell, but the noises sounded damped as if they were coming from far away.

"An explosion. One of our generators blew off. Perhaps the work of partisans or just bad luck. You were lucky though."

"Doesn't feel like it."

She sensed his amused smile and somehow it soothed her. He had no idea who he was or why he was by her side, but she was grateful for not being all alone. She raised her hand and noticed her wrist hurt as well.

"I'm afraid you sprained your wrist," he explained. "But that's the least you have to worry about."

"Why worry?" she asked. Of course a concussion was not something to take on lightly, but she wouldn't die of it now that she was treated properly.

"There's something else that happened to you, but I haven't told anyone. Only the nurse who assisted me is aware of it."

"What do you mean?" she asked, suddenly scared. She opened her eyes. The room around her was almost dark. Soft candle light illuminated the small quarter and she realized she was in one of the small offices that was used by the doctors. It had been transformed into a room with two beds, but the bed next to hers was empty. What was going on? How much damage did the explosion cause? Was this still her hospital or another one? And what was he talking about? Her head felt as if it exploded now that all the question popped in.

"Can't you think of it?" the asked astonished.

She shook her head, "No."

"I'm sorry to tell you that you lost your child."

The words hit her like a bolt of lightning. "That's impossible," she said hoarsely and when she pushed herself up, the pain in her head exploded and she suddenly felt another cutting pain in her abdomen. Could it be true?

"I'm afraid not," he said. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently forced her to lie down again. It was the first time she had a look at his face. He was younger than she had expected. He wore a doctor's coat and appeared to be in his late twenties. He had dark hair and clear blue, piercing eyes. In a way he reminded her about Richard Grey…. Richard….

"You need rest. You lost a lot of blood and we have barely enough to treat the soldiers who end up in here."

"Can you say…."

"What is was? No, I'm afraid." He sounded sympathetic, much more than every other person she knew would. An unwedded pregnant nurse usually received a cold shoulder and not sympathy or discretion.

"That's not what I meant… How long have I been pregnant?"

He shrugged. "I can't be sure, but…. Perhaps about ten weeks or a bit less. It was quite early. You know, I think we should send you home. To rest…."

"I don't want to go home." She didn't even want to think about it. Reginald was at home and the last thing she wanted was seeing him again. Ever. Whatever she needed, it wasn't him. And she couldn't go home to face her mother either. She would dwell on the fact that her daughter was a quitter. A disgraced quitter.

"Well, think about it," he said, as he went to the door. "You need rest. More rest than this war can offer you."

"Who are you?" she asked, because that was all she was able to ask while he head hurt like hell and her thoughts span around the child she had lost.

"My name is Timothy Blackwell. I'm from Belfast."

"Turnbull," she answered. "Isobel Turnbull from Manchester."

He chuckled. Of course, he already knew who she was.

"Well then, Isobel Turnbull from Manchester, get some rest. I'll send a nurse with a powder and something to eat. It'll help you sleep."

He left and when she was alone she turned her head into her pillow and cried.

* * *

_London, 1920 _

Sir Alexander Ferguson sat in his club and smoked a pipe. In the armchair opposite to him sat a man he had hired the day after his visit to Lady Merton. The Pinkerton Agency was one of the best detective agencies in the world. Their work was legendary and when Ferguson hired someone he expected the best to carry out their tasks.

"What exactly is it you want me to find out for you?" the private investigator asked.

"Everything you can about these two people." Ferguson gave the man two photographs. One showed Isobel, the other one Dickie Merton.

"I want you to find out, if there's any connection between them in the past. I know for example both spent some time in France during the war. Find out if it's a coincidence."

Ferguson reached inside the pocket of his jacket and gave him an envelope. "Aside from a handsome advance it contains a list with details that might help you. Friends of these people, also dates, and everything else I could think of. I want you to find out everything about the fate of a man named Pommeroy. Ten years ago he stole some valuable pieces of jewellery from this man's family." He pointed at Dickie's picture. "The gems ended up in her possession. I want you to find out how it happened."

"That's quite unusual," the investigator remarked.

"Think of it as a challenge," Ferguson said with a grin.

The investigar inspected the contents of the envelope. The advance was indeed handsome, almost obnoxious.

"It must be quite important to you," he said after he had finished counting the money.

"You have no idea, my dear friend, you have no idea."

* * *

_Downton_

Once the dinner was over Dickie Merton had offered Isobel and Violet a lift home. Matthew didn't dare to object and so he had to watch the trio leaving in Dickie's motor car.

"Is everything all right?" Mary asked as they went upstairs. "You seem pretty occupied lately."

"I'm fine," he lied as nonchalantly as possible. "It was just a tiring evening. All this talk about cricket is exhausting."

Mary chuckled, "Papa is so glad, Dickie Merton will play for our team. At first he seemed rather reluctant to do so. What did you tell that persuaded him?"

"Nothing special," Matthew answered, rather mechanically.

Mary smirked and took his hand. "Well, whatever it was, it won him over, which is a relief."

Matthew shrugged, tired of cricket, tired of the subject. He had made a deal with Mary's godfather. He wanted to believe the man would stick to his promise, but so far his mother didn't know about it. He was afraid that very soon another, perhaps very unpleasant conversation lay ahead of him. He was more convinced than ever that his mother and Lord Merton were hiding something crucially from him.

"Everything for the family," Matthew said, as he opened the door to their bedroom.

* * *

Ruggles stopped the motor car in front of Crawley House and climbed out to smoke a cigarette. Discreet as always he strolled away, giving Isobel and Dickie the privacy to talk.

"What a night," Dickie said with a sigh and took Isobel's hand into his. The darkness that surrounded them was like a soft cloak. She had anticipated the moment they were finally alone. She had so many questions after this strange evening between cricket talk and the fear her son could lose his well trained manners and make a scene.

"You can say that again," Isobel agreed. "You could have given me a warning, you know. I thought Matthew was going to punch you on the nose, when you entered the room."

Dickie chuckled, "He seems way too sensible to take a swing at an old man."

"If you knew him better, you wouldn't say that." She made a paused and asked, "What did you talk about?"

"You… mostly."

The following and profound silence nearly drove her mad. "Don't tell me, you want to break off our relationship," she said, fearing the worst. "Matthew has no right to…."

"Of course, he asked me to end our relationship," Dickie said with a strange smile. "He's very protective of you. You raised a good man."

"I raised a very stubborn boy," she argued. "When did all of this become so complicated?"

"Was there a time when it wasn't complicated?" he asked back. She silently agreed and remembered their time in South Africa and France. "Anyway, Matthew's asked me to keep my distance from you and I agreed. To a certain extent," he added when he heard her gasping.

"Dickie…."

"I promised him not to visit you in Crawley House. I told him about Ada and that it's likely she won't survive the process of a divorce. I think he has understood that I'm serious about marrying you as soon as possible, but he has made some demands. One of them being I won't expose you to local gossip."

"Do I have a say in any of this?" she asked angrily.

"We were careless in London and that's how we pay for it. I wish things were different, but he's right. I couldn't bear if your life became miserable because people found out about us."

"I don't care what people think or say," she said.

"That's easier said than done."

"I'm not some teenage girl who doesn't know what she's doing," she said defensively. "I find it rather odd that my own son wants to protect me with a modern version of a girdle of chastity."

"He's not that naive."

Isobel wasn't so sure. Every time someone tried to tame her, her rebellious side got the better of her.

"In other words, you won't come in for a nightcap?" she asked. "It's dark outside and if someone is hiding in the bushes, Ruggles can come to our rescue."

She heard him chuckle, perhaps against his own wish. "What a rascal you can be."

"I've always thought you like my practical approach of life," she joked and touched his cheek with her fingertips.

"I do," he admitted. "I'm utterly besotted with you and your wild side."

"Then kiss me," she demanded gently and slipped closer to him, ensuring her body was touching his. If he had really agreed to stay away from her bed, she wanted to make it as difficult and painful for him as possible.

He did as told and bent over to kiss her. She involved him in a long passionate kiss that took her own breath away and once the kiss was over she whispered into his ear, "I won't accept you staying from me."

"Shouldn't the man be the pursuing party in a mad love affair?" he asked.

"Don't you know by now that I'm not very good at convention?" she asked back, running her thumb gently over his lower lip.

They both chuckled. "Well, I guess, I can always be sure you will remind me about it."

"I will," she said and kissed him again. She wanted to lure him, seduce, enjoy her power over him. "Please, come inside. I promise to throw you out before sunrise."

He leaned back and sighed, "I made a promise to your son and I should hate to break it."

"How about keeping it from tomorrow on?" she asked and took his hand. She saw him shaking in his head, as he opened the car door.

"You really want to make suffer, don't you?" he asked when he offered her his arm. On their way to the house, he nodded at Ruggles who leaned against the wall and said, "I won't be too long."

* * *

_London _

Two days after his meeting with the private investigator Alexander Ferguson received a letter from Lady Merton. Things were really developing in his favours these days. The upcoming weekend was a big cricket match that not only gave him the perfect excuse to visit Downton and the Abbey, it also gave him the opportunity to give Lord Merton's wife a visit.

With a gleeful smile, he opened the top drawer of his desk and inspected the syringe and the small bottle inside. His present for the dying and desperate Ada Merton. She was failing and she was failing fast. In her stage she was desperate for anything that gave her ailing body release and he was happy to provide it. Very soon he would provide her the chance to repay his kindness.

*******tbc*******

**As always I'm curious to hear what you think. What does Ferguson plan? What do you think of Matthew and his request? Will Isobel allow him to make decisions for her? And what about this dashing North Irish guy who will play a rather vital part in this story? I hope it made you curious and now I'm off. See you soon ;-) **


	15. Timothy

**Chapter 15 - Timothy**

_Downton, 1920_

"You're going to London?" Matthew asked irritated when he looked at the luggage in the hallway. "When did you decide that?" He had just arrived. His visit was a spontaneous one and the sight of the luggage and his mother getting ready to leave disappointed him.

"Yesterday," Isobel answered crisply. "I have some errands to run. I'll be back tomorrow evening."

"I see…." Abashed Matthew shifted from one foot onto the other. "I wish you would have told me earlier."

"Whatever for?" she asked while she checked the contents of her purse.

"We could have telephoned Rosamund. I'm sure she would…."

"I prefer to stay in a hotel," she snapped. "It simply offers more privacy." It was an obvious provocation and he swallowed. A feeling somewhere between annoyance and pain filled his chest. Their relationship had been like this between them for over a month now. Her anger with him for interfering with her relationship with Lord Merton was as fresh as it was the first day and she didn't seem to get over it. Every time they met, he tried to avoid the subject, but the damage was done and he didn't know how to heal the rift he had created. He stood by his opinion though and thought she must know he only had her best interest at heart, but sensing her obvious pain about his agreement with Lord Merton he sometimes regretted his single handed actions. He was sure that once it was all water under the bridge and Lady Merton was dead, she and Lord Merton could go on with their relationship and stay together.

"Mother, please…"

"What? Do you want to send a chaperone after me to make sure I won't do anything inappropriate?"

"Of course not. I trust you."

"How kind." She closed her purse and looked at him. "I have to go now or I'll miss my train."

"Mother, please, can't we…."

"No, we can't," she cut him off and went to the front door.

"Can't you see my side of the story?" he asked desperately. "I'm worried about you!"

She turned around to face him. The expression on her face was stony and for the first time he actually realized that she looked tired. "You're worried about my reputation, that's it. If you cared for me you wouldn't have done what you did."

"I did what I had to do! I asked him to stop his immoral behaviour and he agreed with me. It seems he has more common sense than you!"

A shadow crossed her face and he noticed it with slight satisfaction. "Let's say he's always eager to make it right for everyone."

"If you say so. You know him better than I do. Sometimes I wonder for how long…." He hadn't wanted to say the last sentence, but it had slipped out. It was the question that had been bothering him for weeks and gave him sleepless nights. From what he had learned about his parents' relationship he couldn't be sure that they had truly led the happy life together that he remembered. Perhaps he had lived the dream they had created for him and now he was finally in process of waking up to a harsh reality.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked with a puzzled expression on her face.

"How long have you known him? I asked him the same question and he refused to give me a sufficient answer. I think there's more to this and I want to know what you're hiding from me."

She gave him a long look. "You think I cheated on your father with him, don't you?" she asked, as if she had suddenly been able to read his mind.

"Did you?" he asked, praying she would deny it in a way he could believe her, in a way that would eliminate even the smallest doubt.

"No. How should it even be possible when we lived in completely different parts of the country? Can we close the subject now?" she sounded cold, almost repellent and he sensed he had struck a nerve.

"Why don't you trust me? I don't even recognize you anymore. It's as if I'm talking to a complete stranger! Even Alexander thinks you are…."

"What has Alexander got to do with this?" she asked alarmed. "What did you tell him?"

Matthew sighed. "I talked to him when we were in London. I didn't know what to do or whom to turn you…."

"And so you went to someone who can't stand the sight of me to ask for advice!" Her conclusion sounded bitter. "And you pretend to be afraid anyone around here could find out..." she broke off, apparently lost for words. In this moment Matthew thought he had never seen her so disappointed about anyone in her life.

"Alexander is a friend. He was father's friend! He's not going to tell anyone!" He realized how hollow and defensive he sounded and again he wished he hadn't said it. He was making things worse between them.

She scoffed and called for her maid. "I'll be off now. I see you when I get back. Why don't you give Sir Alexander a call while I'm away? Just to make sure, he knows everything what's going on here. I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear from you."

The maid appeared and made it impossible for Matthew to reply - or apologize.

"Have a safe trip," he said instead.

* * *

_London _

London in the fall was a wet and foggy experience. Isobel had never liked going to the capital when the cold and wet season of the year began, but after he argument with Matthew it suddenly felt like an act of freedom to leave the village - even if it only was for two days. Of course, her son thought she was going to meet Lord Merton for another secret rendezvous and she wished it were true.

However her trip to London had a completely different reason.

The week before she had received a letter from an old friend that had awoken her curiosity. She hadn't heard from Timothy Blackwell in ages. Actually, the last time she had received a letter from him was after she and Matthew had moved to Downton. After that their correspondence had died away for several reasons, the war being one of them.

Now it seemed he had settled over to London to do some part time teaching at St. Thomas Medical School and he had also become partner in a practice in Harley Street. Over the decades since their first encounter in Africa a genuine friendship had developed between them, even when most of it was expressed in their correspondence. He had spent a lot of time abroad, first in Africa and later in North America, while her life had taken place in Manchester.

She had always loved his letters and admired his sense for the unknown and adventure. Timothy was a lively and charming correspondence partner and always eager to help and share his medical knowledge. Just like Isobel he had been widowed for a few years and Isobel wondered if his new job in London was a way of keeping himself occupied.

He had invited her to one of the best restaurants in London for a late luncheon. It was a treat she was looking forward to. Especially after her unpleasant morning the prospect of spending time with him again was a welcome change.

"Isobel Crawley from Manchester," he said after he had placed a kiss on her cheek. "How good to see you!"

"Manchester is a thing of the past, I'm afraid," she said after the waiter had left them alone with their menus.

"So I heard. But life in rural Yorkshire seems to suit you."

She blushed a bit and cleared her throat."Thank you. You don't seem to feel very shabby either," she returned the compliment.

"I don't. I enjoy teaching. Perhaps I've waited too long before I answered the call."

He wanted to add something, but hesitated. With growing curiosity she watched him over the edge of her menu and sensed he had something on his chest he needed to say before this engagement could become a pleasant luncheon. It was funny that he hadn't changed at all since the first time she met in South Africa. As jovial and kind as he was, he still was kind of shy when it came to problematic issues. She closed the menu and gave him an encouraging smile.

"What is it? Why did you ask me to see you?"

"Perhaps because I wanted to see you?"

"You know I would like to believe this all about seeing an old friend, but I have the feeling it's not." She clicked her tongue and shrugged.

"How do you know I have an ulterior motive?"

"I'm a woman. We spot such things."

He chuckled. "Of course, you do. How foolish of me."

"So, what is it?"

"I'm not sure actually. It was just something that struck me as extremely odd and I think you should know about it."

"Golly! How mysterious you make it sound!"

The waiter arrived and served their wine. Her impatience grew while she stole a glance from Timothy. He had aged with a lot of grace. His salt and pepper was thinner than it used to be, but made him all the more attractive. He still reminded her about Dickie and she realized how much she missed him.

"Well, it is a bit of a mystery," he admitted. "Last week I had a visitor. He approached me after a lecture. He said he were an private investigator who made some enquiries about you."

"About me?" she asked stunned. "Why on earth would a private investigator ask questions about me!"

"I was wondering the same and so I let him talk. He asked many questions about your time in Africa as a nurse. Unfortunately for him, I couldn't tell him much." He showed a boyish grin. "He was rather unsatisfied when I told him I couldn't tell him much about you. I'm an old man and my memory plays tricks on me..." He blinked sheepishly.

"But how…"

"I think he did some snooping in your old medical files and found out you were injured and sent home soon after. Gladly, there was nothing in your file about your other… medical issue, so he didn't know what to look for. He also showed me an old photograph of a soldier…" he made a meaningful pause, but Isobel didn't respond. Her heart was racing within her chest and she felt how her face became hot. Timothy went on with his report, but she didn't hear him. All she was thinking about was Dickie, the baby she lost, and her son who had been asking her all the wrong questions.

"Isobel…?"

"Pardon me… what did you say?"

"I said I didn't know the soldier and told the man so."

"Did he tell you who hired him?"

Timothy smirked. "Of course not. I told him as little as possible, but the man had the mannerism of a bulldog. He's on your heels, that's for sure."

"Did he knew who was on the photograph he showed you?" she asked quietly.

Timothy shrugged, "I don't know. He didn't mention his name and I admit didn't ask him. I didn't want to appear suspicious. From the uniform I could tell he was a captain, but I never came across him and told him so. What I thought was…." he broke off, uncomfortable with whatever it was that was on his mind.

"Please, go on."

"I thought to myself, what if he's the one?"

"The one?" she asked, pretending to be clueless.

"Listen, I can understand, if you don't want to talk about it, but you look like someone who ought to talk about it. I have the feeling you know what this is all about."

"Well, I have an idea," she admitted, still trying not to think it through. Unfortunately her theory made too much sense to be dismissed as nonsense."But would hate to think it could be true."

"I'm all ears," Timothy said. "You know you can trust me."

"Do you want to order?" the waiter interrupted them.

"Not yet," Timothy answered a little annoyed after Isobel had shaken her head.

Sufficiently miffed the waiter left and Isobel said. "I'm afraid it could be Matthew. Before I left we had a rather unpleasant argument."

"About what?"

"About the man in the photograph… I guess."

Timothy seemed first puzzled, than somewhat amused. "Oh dear, I think this will take longer than I expected…"

* * *

Sir Alexander Ferguson sat in his club and enjoyed his luncheon when the waiter served him with a thick envelope on a silver platter.

"The delivery boy said it was urgent," he said.

Ferguson's face brightened up when he recognized the sender. "Give the boy a generous tip for his good work," he said and waited until the waiter had left before he opened the letter.

He quickly scanned the pages and soon he had forgotten the delicious food on his plate. The Pinkerton Detective Agency had performed the most marvellous job. They were indeed worth every penny he had spent on them.

"Oh, my dearest Isobel, you never cease to amaze me!" he exclaimed and laughed out loud, causing the other members to throw annoyed glares at him.

* * *

In the early afternoon the fog and the drizzle had finally faded and the deep grey of the London sky was slowly turning into a lighter colour which allowed Isobel and Timothy to have a walk. She felt more comfortable talking about her personal life without fearing to be overheard by someone else. They were slowly strolling down the Pall Mall heading towards Trafalgar Square. As always Timothy was a good listener and he was someone whose advice was more of a practical nature.

"You make this very hard on yourself, you know," Timothy said. "Why don't you tell your son the part of the story a son can stomach? Tell him you met your Lord during the war in France."

"Right now I just want to send him to bed without supper," Isobel snapped. "Sending some detective after me! I cannot believe he would do such a thing."

"You don't know whether it was him or someone else," he reminded her. "Give him the benefit of the doubt and talk to him."

"You mean serve him a lie that keeps him satisfied without hurting his feelings. That's not my style and I'm not a good liar."

"Take my word for it, no son wants to know such things about his mother, but perhaps he feels better when you tell him just enough."

The phrase made her chuckle despite her anger. "Why are men all the same? You all want to know and you don't want to know!"

Timothy smirked,"I'm not a psychiatrist, but I think the reason lies deep down in our hearts. We know women are truly the superior part of mankind and that's why we make such a song and dance every time they do something we cannot fathom."

She laughed, "I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"Feel free to take it as one, but Isobel…."

"Yes?"

"It's my humble opinion as a man who thinks women usually the better judges of situations that you should also talk to your friend Lord Merton about what happened to you in South Africa."

Isobel stopped in her tracks. "Whatever for?"

Timothy shrugged, as if the answer was obvious as the grey sky. "He deserves to know."

"And what on earth should I tell him? 'I'm sorry, but back then in Africa I was pregnant, but I lost the baby before I knew about it and besides I cannot be sure it was yours'? It would cause him more harm than any good."

"And what about you?" he asked. "Wouldn't it do any good to get it off cour chest?"

"It happened a long time ago and I have no nothing to regret," she said. "I never told Reginald and I certainly won't tell Lord Merton." She watched the motorcars passing by and for a second she thought she was dreaming. Sure all the talking about Dickie made her imagining things, she looked again at the one of the cars that had just stopped on the other side of the road.

"Oh my god…"

"What is it?" Timothy asked when he noticed her getting more and more flustered. She watched the other side of the road where a man was getting out of a car. She had instantly recognized Ruggles distinctive figure and thought she must still be dreaming. Where Ruggles was Dickie couldn't be far and he wasn't. She had no idea he was in London. His last letter had reached her at the weekend and he hadn't mentioned any upcoming trip. Why hadn't he asked her to join him? They hadn't spent time together in weeks.

"What is it?" Timothy repeated and followed her eyes.

"I see," he said and after a while of watching, he cleared his throat. "That's him, isn't it? He's here and stays in his club and from the way you look, you didn't expect him to be here. It's the Traveller's Club, isn't it? Nice address."

"Yes, it is."

"Do you want to greet him?"

"No… I don't think it's a good idea," she said, unable to tear her eyes away from Dickie. He was chatting with another man who just arrived as well. He hadn't noticed her and she thought it was perhaps for the best. The less they were seen together the better.

"You've got it really bad, haven't you?" he asked mildly. "Was it always like that?"

She shook her head. "No…. But I love him now. It's so different from it was with Reginald, but I do love him and I can't bear the thought of giving him up. Does that sound too selfish of me?"

He gently shook his head, "It doesn't, my dear, it doesn't. I can understand you more than you think."

* * *

_Downton _

"What on earth is the matter with you?" Mary whispered annoyed as they walked down the staircase.

"Nothing. I have a bit of a headache," Matthew answered. It was the truth. He had indeed a headache. His argument with Isobel had gripped him to the marrow. He had to make an end to this. Come what may.

"You haven't been well for weeks. Perhaps you should see Doctor Clarkson about it," she suggested a bit softer.

"Yes, perhaps. I'll make an appointment," he said and placed a kiss on her hand. "Don't worry."

"But I do worry," Mary said. "You should take better care of yourself."

Matthew, too worn out to answer was glad when he spotted the Dowager in the foyer.

"Look, there's Cousin Violet," he said, hoping it would distract Mary enough to give him some time and space to breathe.

"Yes, here I am," Violet said when Mary greeted her with a kiss on her cheek. "And since you are here as well, we might as well can have a chat before we go inside."

"A chat?" Mary asked before Matthew could.

"Yes, a chat," Violet confirmed and hushed her granddaughter away.

"A chat…," Matthew sighed. He had the feeling to know what was coming and he didn't look forward to it. "Make sure there's a whiskey left for me before we go in to have dinner," he told Mary as he followed Violet inside the library. "I think I will need it."

* * *

_London_

Dickie stood in front of the mirror while Ruggles was busy brushing the yoke of his white tie. On his bedside table lay a note he had received with the evening post. It was from Isobel. She was staying in a hotel near Trafalgar Square, not too far from his club and asked him to see her. It was a short note, one he hadn't expected, after he had seen her during the afternoon. Under normal circumstances he had asked Ruggles to pick her up instantly, but after he had noticed that she was taking a walk with another man he had pretended not to see her. She hadn't told him she was going to London and he had no idea who the man in her company had been. It wasn't his business, he knew as much. She was a free woman, god knew, a free spirit and she had every right to take a walk with whomever she wanted to. It shouldn't annoy him, but it did. There must be a perfectly innocent explanation for all of this. He knew he could trust her. Her letter to him proved he could. So why was he thinking of ignoring it, hoping to punish her with it?

"Ruggles, I'm a fool," he said and sighed.

Ruggles crooked his eyebrows in response. The cheeky smile on his face told Dickie everything he needed to know about Ruggles' opinion on the matter.

"You are not very helpful, do you know that?" Dickie complained. "But perhaps you're right. I think I'll do my best to keep the dinner with the Duke and his wife as short as possible. They were going to lament about politics anyway. Why don't you get the car around nine?"

Ruggles nodded gracefully and a bit too pleased with himself as Dickie thought and left the room.

* * *

Listless Isobel ran her fingers through the hot water in her tub and added more bath oil. After her meeting with Timothy the rest of her day had been quite dull and she had been left alone with a lot of think about. The idea that a private investigator was making enquiries about her made her uncomfortable and she had spent most of the time outside looking out for someone who was perhaps watching her every move. Would Matthew do something like that? If she thought it through she couldn't believe it. There were more options she had to consider? What about Lady Merton? From what Dickie and the Dowager Countess had told her, Ada was a nasty woman who didn't stop at anything to make her husband miserable. What if she was the one behind the investigation? But why and how should she know about South Africa? What truly worried Isobel was that someone was making the effort to find out about her past. Forty years was long time frame to cover and someone was willing to do and even talked to her former doctor.

She had written a short note to Dickie's club to let him know where she was, but she hadn't heard from him. Now it was past nine and she had lost hope to see him again before she would go home again. That she hadn't heard from him bothered her. Of course, it could be that her letter hadn't reached in time. Perhaps he was out and didn't even know she was in town. He was also under no obligation to tell her his every move. After all she hadn't written him about her trip either. Her meeting with Timothy wasn't necessarily a secret, but she wasn't keen on telling Dickie about him. If anything she wanted to keep the true reason for the end of her traineeship in South Africa a secret. Worried she thought about the scale of her own secret and wondered what reason Dickie could have had not to tell her about his visit.

She went back to the bedroom and undressed. After she had slipped into her dressing gown, a black and orange coloured silk kimono, she started to undo her hair. She had just removed the first grips when she heard someone knocking at her door. She froze. The lights flickered and for a second it was dark. With her heart pounding she went to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me."

A smile broadened on her face when she heard Dickie's voice. Before she opened the door for him, she took a moment to relish the fact that he had come to see her.

"Come in."

Admiring his formal evening attire she watched him passing her. He belonged to the type of men who could wear white tie without looking dressed up or ridiculous.

"I'm disturbing you," he said as his eyes travelled up and down her body. She became aware of her appearance and felt foolish. She was barefooted and her hair a mess.

"I didn't think you would come," she admitted a bit nervous. "Where have you been?"

"I was invited to the Ritz. Nothing special." He folded his hands behind his back.

"I know people who would claim otherwise," she said.

"The company was nothing special. I should have had dinner with you."

The way he looked at her made her shiver. He had established eye contact with her. Almost daunting as if he were trying to read her mind his blue eyes pierced hers, something she found as intimidating as arousing.

"Why are you here?" she asked quietly and started to straighten out the loose strands of her hair.

"You invited me," he reminded her.

"That's not what I mean… why are you in London?"

He sighed. "I took Ada to a facility here. She was getting worse by day and yesterday the doctors found it was time to bring her somewhere better equipped."

She swallowed, shocked to hear how quickly Ada's health declined and embarrassed because she had doubted his motives. "I'm sorry to hear that. It can't have been easy."

"I'm afraid the boys took it quite hard. Of course they don't know what exactly she's suffering from. I thought it best to leave them in the dark, although they would find a way to blame me anyway."

"I see."

He finally broke the eye contact and started wandering around the room. She had checked in in one of the simpler rooms the hotel offered and so there wasn't much to discover. The view on the other hand was excellent, but it was already dark and heavy rain was hitting the windows.

"And what about you?" It was inevitable question, but it was the next question that truly got to her and made her uncomfortable. "Who was he?"

"You saw us?"

"I did." He stood at the window, his back turned on her.

"He's an old friend," she explained. "Doctor Blackwell. He's from Northern Ireland."

"You never mentioned him."

"I haven't heard from him in ages. He spent a lot of time abroad. Dickie, I…. Oh my god!" The noise of the rain hitting her window suddenly reminded her of something else.

"The water!"

Puzzled by her outburst he turned around, but she was already on her way to the bathroom. She reached the tub, turned off the faucet, and sighed in relief when she realized that she had reacted in time. The very last thing she would have needed was a flooded hotel room.

She straightened up again, stepped back, and bounced against him. She jerked around and found him right in front of her. She smelled his cologne and his nearness took her breath away. She hadn't heard him coming after her, but there he was. He was so tall and she felt so small, wearing nothing but her kimono.

"Everything is fi….," she never came to finish her sentence because he swiftly grabbed her and pushed her against the door frame. More hair grips ended clankingly on the bathroom floor when his hands dug into her hair and pressed his mouth on hers. His kiss was as raw as his hands as they found their way under her kimono and groped her naked skin. The confusion about his sudden eruption of passion vanished quickly when her own desire for him took over.

The lights flickered and finally went out before they even made it to the bed.

*****tbc******

**So, the chapter arrives late but it's the longest yet... I hope you enjoyed it :-) Have a nice week! **


	16. Outburst

**Chapter 16 - Outburst **

_Downton, 1920 _

Matthew wished he had a whiskey. His headache had intensified and he wished the Dowager were a man. A lot of things would have been easier, if the old bat were someone he could just punch instead of feeling forced to listen to her. As always she was reasonable and wise - and terrifyingly spiky in her honesty.

"Don't be so middle class, Matthew. Perhaps your romantic ideas of love and marriage can amuse today's writers, but they are barely sufficient to survive the harsh world outside."

"You mean the harsh reality of a Lord being married to a horrid wife who got himself a devoted mistress who defends his misfortune? That's the oldest story in the book, Cousin Violet, and I don't wish to discuss it. This is between my mother and me! I would prefer, if you stayed out of it!"

He knew perfectly well she wouldn't, but he wanted to say it anyway. Violet was a busybody who loved to stick her nose into other people's business. She had helped him in the past, but he didn't want her help now. Not in this case.

"Well, your mother confided in me and since she isn't getting anywhere with you, I want to help."

"I appreciate your wish to intercede, but…"

"It's not my intention to intercede," Violet clarified. "I just want to set your head straight. You're a grown man and you've suffered your share of heartbreak and battle scars. In my opinion there's only one reason why a man who knows how the world works can be this unsympathetic towards his own mother's happiness with a man who couldn't be any less threatening..." Her voice trailed off. She leaned on her stick and just looked at him. It made him deeply uncomfortable because he felt skeletonized by her piercing eyes.

He swallowed. "And what could that be?"

"That's what I want to hear from you," Violet answered stoic. "I think you know perfectly well that Dickie Merton is not a philanderer who seduced your mother. He said, he wishes to marry her as soon as possible and you can take his word for it. So, I fathom there must be another reason for your concern and your unwillingness to see sense."

Beaten Matthew went to the bar to pour himself a whiskey.

"Did I just strike a nerve?" Violet asked, the glee audible in her voice.

"They've known each other before," Matthew said after he had gulped his drink. "There must be some sort of history between them. No one goes from 'Hello to I love you' in such a short time."

Violet shrugged. "So what?"

"So what?" Matthew repeated in disbelief as he went back to Violet. "Can't you see what this means? What if they..."

She cut him off, "Did you ask your mother?"

"I did. She denied having cheated on my father."

"Since your mother is the most annoyingly honest person I know, I think you can take her word for it."

"I know."

"So?"

He shrugged and helped himself for a second whiskey.

"So, maybe it's time you apologized to her."

Matthew stayed silent, deeply lost in his thoughts. "You see," Violet said gently. "I didn't know your father, but I know your mother. I'm sure that no matter how deep her feelings for Lord Merton are, there's no way these feelings will diminish her love for the late Doctor Crawley. There's more than one kind of love, Matthew."

Matthew listened to the departing sound of Violet's cane on the wooden floor, but stayed behind, contemplating the meaning of her words.

* * *

_London_

It was almost dark in the bathroom. Only two candles spent a soft, flickering light that painted blurred shadows against the wall. The heavy rain outside had finally stopped but the electricity hadn't returned yet. Isobel didn't know how much time had passed since he had entered her hotel room, but she wished they could stay in there forever. The mixture of the hot water and the feeling of his body against hers gave her the feeling of peace and safety. A strange melancholy she had last felt in South Africa when they had hid from the war in his bedroom beset her.

"Why does this remind me of Paris?" Dickie asked with a sigh and placed a kiss on Isobel's temple. Her answer was a low chuckle. "I can't remember sharing a bathtub with you in Paris. That must have been someone else."

"But we sure had some nights without electricity," he reminded her. "And for what it matters, I don't have a habit of sharing a bath with anyone else. "

"There are certainly worse ways to spend a night," she said and tilted up her head. He kissed her mouth and she snuggled against his neck. "I missed you."

"I'm certainly glad I'm not in my club right now. I almost didn't come here."

"Because you saw me taking a walk with another man in a public park?" she asked. "I think your imagination is running away with you."

"Is it? I wouldn't even blame you, if you were seeing someone else. Matthew was right when he said, I can't really offer you anything but a place as second in line."

"Would you please stop talking such nonsense?!" she turned her head, wanted to have a straight look at his face to see if he really believed what he had just said, but the tub was too narrow.

"Who is Doctor Blackwell?" he asked, before she could go on scolding him. She leaned back against his chest and stared at the ceiling. She decided to tiptoe around as long as possible. She would follow Timothy's suggestion and just tell him what she thought he could stomach.

"I told you, he's a friend. We've been in contact since he treated me in South Africa."

She waited with baited breath for his reaction and as expected he got worried. "Treat you for what?"

"There was an explosion," she explained. "I had some injuries and he had me transferred back to England. We've been correspondence partners since then. I barely saw him and…."

"What kind of injuries?" he interrupted her. "Has it something to do with this?"

He ran his finger over the long scar across her lower abdomen. She quickly pressed her hand onto his and intertwined her fingers with his. She had never liked when anyone touched it or reminded her about the scar. Against her knowledge and judgement it reminded her about failure and her own carelessness.

"No… that was something different. After my transfer that field hospital there was an explosion. The blast threw me over, I had hit a rock with my head… I had some cuts, some sprains… Nothing life threatening, but I was in pretty bad shape for weeks."

"I see… I'm sorry."

"I was as well. Doctor Blackwell sent me home and I had to admit to my mother that going to Africa was a bad idea. That's the part I hated most about it." She was glad he couldn't see her face right now. Her attempt to make a joke out of it had failed, but she was doing a good job of covering it up. She quickly wiped a tear from her face. Timothy's words about telling Dickie the truth about the baby she had lost rang in her ears, but she fought the urge to tell him with every fibre of her being. If she told him, it would only benefit her, not him. It would take a weight from her heart and would burden his.

"And the scar?" he asked gently. "You never mention it."

"One year after I had Matthew I was pregnant again. Everything went well at first…. I felt healthier than when I was with Matthew, but one day I suddenly felt sick and started bleeding. I had a surgery, but it was too late. I lost the baby - and every chance of getting pregnant again."

"I've wondered why he's an only child," Dickie admitted. "But I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"One could say I'm not really good breeding material," she said harsher than she wanted to.

"Nonsense!"

"Well, it's true." She sat up. "The water's getting cold," she said, hoping to change the subject once and for all. "Let's get out and see if I can organise us a bottle of wine."

"Did I upset you?" he asked, while she climbed out of the tub.

"No, you didn't." She gave him a fake smile that hopefully convinced him. The room was certainly dark enough to do so.

"But you don't want to talk about it either."

"No."

"All right then, " he said. "One day, I'll make sure you won't escape. I want to know all your secrets."

She chuckled half-heartedly, but she only did it to cover up another sob that was located somewhere deep in her throat.

"Come to bed then. I show you how mysterious I can be - unless you prefer to wrinkle up in there." She blinked at him and went into the bedroom. She dropped the towel to the floor and fluffed up the pillows. Suddenly the lights went back on and then she heard Dickie's suppressed hiss and a curse.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I think I've stepped on one of your hair pins. How can you have them anywhere near your head? I swear they are instruments of torture!"

For the first time she actually laughed. "Will a nurse do or do we need a doctor?"

* * *

Sir Alexander Ferguson took off his top hat and coat. He neatly placed both pieces over the valet stand, removed a lint from his hat, before he sat behind his desk. He had just returned from his mission and was satisfied with the result. The first part of his plan had gone as smoothly as expected. Now the much for delicious and vital part was about to begin. The lack of electricity had played him in the cards. The gods were in his favour, he felt it.

He pulled out the small casket from the inner pocket of his jacket. He opened it and added a second, filled bottle next to the empty one. There was a small stain of blood smeared over the pinpoint of the needle. He admired the accuracy of his work, before he closed the caskett again. His thumb ran tenderly over the engraved letters and he smiled. Ii was almost a pity he couldn't keep it. The wood was exquisit. Cool, yet warm, always willing to be touched. It would be of perfect use. All he had to do now was to place it where the right person would find it.

* * *

_Downton_

Isobel returned to Downton the next afternoon. The weather had become undeniable colder after the heavy rainfall and she looked forward to an evening in front of a pleasant, warming fire. She flinched a bit when the cold wind almost tore her hat from her head.

Welcomed by the harsh cold of the upcoming winter, she thought, hoping it wasn't a sign for anything else that fate had in store for her. A sudden rush of fear ran through her body and she shivered.

"Mother!"

Surprised to hear Matthew's voice, she gave her bag to the conductor and waited. Matthew was out of breath when he reached her. He kissed her cheek and said, "I'm sorry, I wanted to pick you up, but it wasn't easy to get out of the office in time."

"Well, you're here in time," she said, a bit irritated. She was happy to see him, but wondered, why on earth he came to the station. "But there's no need to…"

"Well, I think there's the need to pick you up," Matthew said and offered her his arm. She looked at him with hesitation and Matthew added. "Picking you up comes without another telling-off. I promise."

"All right then," she said and linked arms with him. Slowly they strolled down the platform. The bad feeling she experienced when she arrived was forgotten.

"How was London?" Matthew asked.

"Wet and foggy. We had no electricity last night. It looked as if the half of the city was dark."

"I read it in the papers," Matthew confirmed.

"I met with a friend for luncheon yesterday," she said. She had decided to spare him the misery of not knowing what to ask. "Do you remember my pen friend Doctor Blackwell?"

"The globetrotter?" Matthew asked surprised. "Yes, I do. What's he doing in London?"

"He's teaching at St. Thomas."

"How thrilling. Does he like it?"

"That's what he said."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

She chuckled, "Because you didn't deserve it. And besides… who says one engagement with a man for luncheon excludes meeting another one for dinner."

He groaned, "Spare me the details, will you? I wish you wouldn't make fun of me when I try to make amends."

"What changed your opinion?" Isobel asked. "Nothing's changed."

"I know. Let's say I made my peace with the situation. There's nothing I can do about it, as long as you love him."

"Well, I won't ask how you came round, but I'm glad you did."

"I thought you might say something like that," Matthew admitted and opened the car door for her.

* * *

They arrived at Crawley House in time for tea and relieved Matthew's mood had changed for the better, she asked him to stay.

"Unless Mary's expecting you, of course."

"She isn't, but Cora's asked you for dinner. Will you come?"

Isobel smiled, while she took off her gloves. "I'll be glad to."

"Good."

The maid entered the drawing room with a tray. "The tea's ready, Madam."

"Thank you, Louise. Just put it on the table."

"I put the mail on your desk, Madam," the maid said. "One came just an hour ago. It was delivered by a rather strange messenger."

"What was so strange about him?" Isobel asked amused.

"He didn't talk. Not one word. Was that all, Madam?"

Isobel crooked her eyebrow. "Yes, Louise. Thank you."

The maid made a small bow and left the room. Isobel crossed the room with quick steps and looked for the letter her maid had described. As she expected it, it was from Dickie. If he had Ruggles come over here to deliver a letter, something important must have happened. He had left her hotel room in the middle of the night. His plan had been to take the last train to Downton, but when Ruggles was here, he must have left London before her. Something must have changed and that worried her. Her hands were slightly trembling when she slid the letter open. The bad feeling from the train station was back and crawled up her neck.

"What is it?" Matthew asked when Isobel dropped the letter to her lap. She looked up to him in disbelief and said. "It's from Lord Merton."

"He has a servant who doesn't talk?" Matthew wondered.

"His wife's dead," Isobel said, and once the words had left her mouth she finally believed them. "It seems she died sometime last evening."

"Oh my…."

"The police think her death probably classifies as murder." She looked helplessly at him and showed him the letter.

Matthew rushed over to her and took it. His eyes quickly scanned the pages. "They ask him to stay in London to question him?"

"I can help him," Isobel said eagerly. "We spent the evening together. He doesn't have anything to do with this! I'll go back to London!"

Ada was dead, but would anyone kill her? And who? She thought about the Pinkerton detective. She hadn't told Dickie about him, because she didn't want to think about it, but now it seemed stupid that she hadn't mentioned it.

"Mother, no! He writes we wants you to stay out of it! I'm sure a good lawyer can prove his innocence without you coming forward!"

Her imagination was running wild and she was torn between her wish to rush to Dickie's side and her reason that told her Matthew was right.

"But who else could have killed her?"

"Perhaps it's just an enquiry," Matthew suggested. "It's not uncommon for the police to question spouses and relatives after someone died from unknown causes."

Matthew was not wrong, but nothing he said could convince her of it. Something sinister was going on. It was a game she hadn't understood - at least not yet.

*******tbc*******

**Sorry, the chapter comes late, but I was sick. I hope you enjoyed the premiere of the trailer for the DA movie. I did :-) **

**Let me know what you think about the chapter. I always love to read your theories! **


	17. Vengeance

**Chapter 17 - Vengeance **

_Downton, 1920_

Fall had definitely arrived in Downton when Isobel received an Inspector from Scotland Yard in her drawing room. Heavy rain was hitting the windows when Inspector vyner introduced himself. His task was to ask questions in connection to the suspicious death of Lady Merton. Matthew had insisted to be present and was lurking in the background, holding on to his cup of tea while his mother sat in a chair. Matthew admired her relaxed attitude and wondered where it came from. His gut told him to be cautious. Lord Merton had been questioned by the police as well, but they hadn't made any attempt to arrest him. Lady Merton had been buried a few days ago. Mary and her parents had attended the funeral, which had been a big society affair, but the event had left them all rather cold. Lady Merton had not been someone well liked. In fact she had been feared and according to Robert most people had only attended the service to make sure she was actually cold and buried. It was a well known secret that most people thought Ada had committed suicide, but the not so discreet questioning from the police only fuelled the gossip that there was more behind her death than some undefined condition. From what Matthew had understood Lady Merton had died from an overdose of morphine. An autopsy had uncovered the intense abuse of the pain killing medication that had led to her demise. Her death could have been suicide, an accidental overdose, or murder.

"We examine the cause of death of Lady Merton," Inspector Vyner said, after he had declined a cup of tea. On the surface the man looked almost bored with his task, but Matthew could tell the man was observant like a hawk. His eyes never stopped scanning Isobel's face. His mother had never had a good poker face, but Matthew noticed how unmoved she seemed.

"Did you know Lady Merton?" Vyner asked.

"We were acquainted, yes."

"When did you see her last?"

Isobel narrowed her eyes, "That must have been during the summer. We met accidentally in a restaurant in London. My son was there as well."

Vyner looked up to Matthew who just nodded to confirm his mother's words.

"I see. Did you get along with her?"

Isobel shrugged, "I'm not sure what you mean. We met at my son's wedding and at some dinners. I would say, we didn't have much in common."

"And do you get along with her husband? With Lord Merton?"

"He's nice and more… sociable than his wife."

"Is that a yes?"

She shrugged. "It is. He's the godfather of my son's wife."

"When did you see him last?"

"I met him at church last Sunday."

"Were you present at Lady Merton's funeral?"

"No."

Vyner made some notes in his little black book. Such a cliché, Matthew thought bitterly. So far his mother hadn't told the policeman one lie, but Matthew suspected Vyner was just getting started. He looked like a man with an agenda. Vyner reached inside his pocket and unfolded a letter.

"Lady Merton's oldest son, Larry Grey, gave this to us. His mother wrote it to him the week before she died. May I read it for you?"

"I guess you'll do it, whether I want it or not," Isobel said and gave Vyner a smile that wasn't returned.

"Quite right, Ma'am," Vyner said and cleared his throat. "My dear Larry, I feel dreadful. The doctors have told me that I have to be moved into a hospital rather sooner than later. My time is running out. They blame my illness, but I think it's your father who wants me out of here. He wants me to leave, so he can make plans for the time after my death. His mistress, I told you about her, won't want to wait for me to die in peace. I'm sure they are busy plotting my demise…," Vyner's voice trailed off. He gave Isobel a piercing glare. "You see, Mrs Crawley, Lady Merton claims in this letter you're her husband's mistress."

"Did she indeed?" Isobel asked back without batting an eyelid.

"She did and she thinks Lord Merton and you wanted her dead. What do you make of that?"

"Now, listen…" Matthew had enough. The saucer hit the table with a clanging, rather unmelodious sound, but before Matthew was able to interfere, Isobel raised her hand.

"From what I heard Lady Merton was suffering from a severe illness that can cause paranoia and lack of judgement. I think that should answer your question."

"Who told you about her illness? It was a well hidden secret from what I gathered." Vyner asked surprised. "Was it Lord Merton?"

"Actually it was the Dowager Countess of Grantham who heard it from one of her servants. Lady Merton's illness was not exactly a secret and neither was her spite towards almost every other woman within this county."

"You know a lot about her for someone who just claimed otherwise."

"You asked me what I know and that's what I heard. Is there anything else you want to ask me?"

"Yes, there is. Where have you been the night Lady Merton died?"

"Well, when did she die?"

Matthew groaned inwardly, wondering if Isobel was overdoing it with her question. As if he didn't know the answer by heart, Vyner looked the date up in his notes.

"Two weeks ago. She died in London on Monday, 4th October between 8 and 10 o'clock in the evening"

"I was in London that evening. I stayed at the Carlton Hotel."

"On your own?"

"Yes, on my own."

"Is it really necessary to ask my mother for an alibi?" Matthew asked annoyed.

"It is," Vyner answered stoic. "We need to examine every angle in this case and your mother is a person of interest. Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts, Mrs Crawley?" Vyner asked.

"There was no electricity that night and one of the maids brought me some candles," Isobel answered. "I think that was around 9 o'clock or perhaps a bit later. I can't remember exactly."

Vyner made some notes. "Anyone else?"

"No."

"What did you do in London?"

"I had to run some errands… and I had lunch with Doctor Timothy Blackwell."

Vyner looked up to her. "So you had lunch with Doctor Blackwell and you spent the rest of the day on your own?" It was obvious he didn't believe her, but Isobel didn't waver. She sticked to her story and said, "Yes. I was in London because I had to do some shopping. It was a ghastly evening with a lot of rain and so I had dinner in my room and went to bed early."

"Before you came to live here, you worked as a nurse, didn't you?" Vyner asked.

"Well, many years ago," Isobel said. "I've had a more administrative post in the hospital when we still lived in Manchester."

"You I'm sure, you still know how to make use of a syringe and you know the effect of morphine and the abuse of it."

"Of course, I do."

Matthew expected from the Inspector to ask more questions, but the policeman just closed his notebook and rose. "Thank you, Mrs Crawley. That is all for now. Have a good day."

Surprised by the sudden exit, Matthew hastened to the door and opened it.

"One last question, Mrs Crawley." In the door frame Vyner turned around once more and looked at Isobel.

"What is it, Inspector?"

"Does the name Alice Pommeroy ring a bell?"

Isobel narrowed her eyebrows, clearly astonished. "I don't think so. Why?"

"Never mind, Ma'am. Good day."

Matthew showed the man out and when he returned Isobel was having a cup of tea. Her hands were shaking.

"What was that about?" he asked completely puzzled. "Who is Alice Pommeroy?"

"I don't know who exactly she was, but I know for sure she's dead," Isobel answered vaguely.

"But who… how…. Why did he ask you about her?" He was confused and the old feeling of only knowing half of the story returned. What was she keeping from him and the police and why?

"Mother, I'm afraid this is getting worse by day. Who is Alice Pommeroy and what is her connection to Lady Merton?"

Isobel sighed and gave her son a long look. He saw how she calculating her options and it drove him mad.

"Mother, we're talking about murder. Do you realize what this could mean? It means hanging! It's time you told me the truth!"

Isobel poured herself a cup of tea and told her son to sit down. "But promise me to listen to me until I'm finished."

"I promise."

"Alice Pommeroy died in Paris during the war. She was shot…"

* * *

The next day Isobel took a walk through the village. As always she paid a short visit to Sybil's grave. On her way there, she also passed the graves of Lavinia and her father, as well as the fresh grave of Ada Merton. To her surprise she also saw Dickie standing at his wife's grave. Hew was all alone like a lost figure. He seemed deeply lost in his thoughts and she wondered if she should disturb him, but then the wish to talk to him was stronger than her sense of piety. After Matthew had left her house the day before she had tried to write a letter to him, but she had given up after countless attempts to collect her thoughts. Matthew had been everything but happy with her report about her adventure in Paris. As much as she had tried to spare her son the details about her relationship with Dickie, he knew enough to get the whole picture. He was unhappy with the danger she had brought herself into and she was sure, he was even more unhappy with Dickie, because he had underestimated the situation.

She strolled over to him and waited until he noticed her presence. When he looked up and saw her standing near the grave he startled.

"I had no idea you were there. I'm so sorry." He quickly pulled his hat from his hat to greet her properly. It amused her that how matter how well they knew each other, he still wanted to show her every courtesy.

"Don't worry. How are you?" she asked gently.

"I'm fine…" he pointed vaguely at Ada's grave. "I was just in dialogue with her. I need answers, but... I'm a fool."

Isobel crooked her eyebrow. "What is it you need answers for?"

"I've spent… wasted thirty years of my life with her. I want to know why she thinks I wanted her dead. She was dying anyway, why would she think I would want to kill her? I made sure she was well taken care of."

"Did you get an answer?" Isobel asked curiously.

"No, not really. It's a mystery. Can you imagine living with someone for thirty years without knowing them?"

She shook her head. Thinking like Ada, getting inside her head was beyond her. She didn't want to understand that woman, but it was necessary, if they wanted to find out what happened to her.

"What did the police say?" she asked. "Do they really consider you a suspect?"

He shrugged almost amused, "Nothing much, really. The Inspector seems unhappy with my alibi. He told me he had asked the nurses and the bellman of the hospital, but they swear they didn't see me at the hospital that evening - which isn't surprising because I wasn't there, as we both know. Vyner also talked to Ruggles, but you can imagine how well that went… There must be another reason for him to pinpoint me, but he wouldn't say it."

"I think he's eager to prove that we sneaked in there and gave Ada a fatal shot of morphine."

"He is… did he openly blame you?"

"No, but I don't think he believed me when I told him that I spent the night alone in my hotel room. He called me a person of interest. Whatever that means." She closed her eyes. "Why don't I just tell him the truth?" she asked quietly. "We were together, which means we can't have killed her."

He shook his head, "No, I don't want him to think of you as…"

"As what? Your lover? He thinks it anyway and if it saves our lives, I'll be glad to say it out loud!"

"Not if I can help it!" He made a pause. "And even if we told him the truth. Who tells you he won't spin it the other way round? What if he thinks we did it together and provide each other with a staged alibi?"

She couldn't deny the possibility. Ada had made sure, one of them was to blame, if something happened to her. Was it a coincidence? Did she really fear for her life?

Isobel remembered Timothy's report about the private detective who had asked questions about her and her time in Africa. The Inspector from Scotland Yard who asked questions about Alice Pommeroy.

Perhaps all of the pieces were part of the same puzzle and Isobel had started to think Ada could have been the one to set them up. Ada had seen her with the jewellery and Pommeroy had been her lover. It was not impossible for her to have known about Pommeroy's wife. Who else could hold such a grudge against her and Dickie? They had never hurt anyone. The only person whose ego had suffered from their love had been Ada.

She drew a deep breath. "There's something else..."

"What do you mean?"

"The Inspector asked me, if I knew a woman named Alice Pommeroy."

His face became pale. "What?"

"I have no idea why he asked and he didn't want to say it," she said quickly. His instant worry did nothing to calm her own.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I've never heard of her, but you see, I think his question could be connected to something entirely else... and that's what truly worries me."

"What is it?" he asked concerned.

"I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want to concern you, but now I think…." She broke off and looked at Ada's grave. She felt a shiver running down her spine, as if the body underneath the mound was cursing her from beyond and enjoyed it. Instinctively she made a step back. "Walk with me," she suggested. "Let's get away from here."

* * *

_Manchester, 1883 _

Isobel heard the scream coming from one of the offices and stopped in her tracks. She was carrying a pile of fresh washed towels that needed to be taken to the operating theatre. She waited, listened, and when she heard another audible sob, she put the towels on a shelf and rushed down the hallway. The door leading to Reginald's office was open, but he wasn't there. She looked around, horrified she noticed there was blood on the floor. She heard someone crying. Emma Crawley was crouching behind Reginald's desk, obviously tormented by pain. Her body was trembling with heavy convulsions and her face was completely distorted and covered with sweat. One hand lay protectively on her swollen belly, the other hand was pressed onto the floor. The attempt to keep her body steady was almost useless, because her body was violently twitching and shaking.

"Emma!" Isobel rushed to her and kneeled down next to her. "What is it?"

"I... don't… know….," she sobbed. "Where's… Reggie?"

"He left an hour ago. Some appointment with Alexander. Can you lie down?" She pushed back the chair to make more room. As careful as possible, she helped Emma to roll onto her back. She stroked Emma's red hair back and placed her hand on her forehead. "You're blazing!" she said. "Since when are you like that? I'll get you a doctor!"

She gathered her heavy skirts to get back on her feet, but Emma got hold of her hand.

"Tell them... they need to save my child!"

"As I see it, we have to save you first!" Isobel blurted out.

"Tell them to save my baby! Reggie…. He's so happy about it. Promise me!"

Isobel swallowed. She had always hated how Emma called him Reggie. As if she needed anyone to remind her about how happy he was about the growth of his family. He never tired of telling her about it. "I know."

Suddenly Emma's heavy breath subsided. Her body seemed to relax and her eyes closed.

"Emma!" Isobel yelled and shook her shoulders."Stay with me!" Emma's eyes flickered open once more.

"Alexander…," she croaked.

Once more Isobel touched Emma's wet forehead. "I'll find him. He'll help you! Stay awake, I'll be right back!"

She got to her feet as quickly as her heavy nurses uniform allowed it and rushed outside. While she yelled for help, Emma lost consciousness. She would never wake up again.

* * *

_Downton, 1920 _

After a dinner she had barely eaten Isobel was sitting in her drawing room in front of a fire. The book she had been reading lay in her lap, untouched. She was staring into the flames, lost in her thoughts. Telling Dickie about the private investigator and the questions he had asked Timothy had shown her how complicated her situation truly was. After the kind of questions the police had asked her, Dickie had shown just as much concern and wondered, if he should hire a solicitor to look into their situation. Matthew had suggested a similar idea and she began to think getting help from someone professional was perhaps their only way out of this mess.

She was either becoming paranoid or someone was out to get her. One way or the other, she felt like prey waiting to be hunted down.

Since she was now convinced that Matthew didn't hire anyone to dig into her past with Dickie, Ada or someone close to her was the only explanation that made sense. Dickie's oldest son had given the incriminating letters to the police. What if Larry was behind it? He had been close to his mother and certainly just as mean spirited as she had been during her lifetime. Isobel had the vague hunch that Dickie wouldn't want to believe his son was the pulling the strings. She didn't blame him for it, but who else was left now that Ada was dead?

Someone knocked at the door and Isobel startled. The book fell from her lap.

"Sir Alexander Ferguson for you, Ma'am," the maid said.

"Oh golly!" Isobel pushed the blanket from her knees and rose. She quickly picked up the book and put it on the table. Alexander was the very last person she wanted to see. Her mind was filled with her own problems and she didn't need him to annoy her with his usual snark. What was he doing in Downton anyway?

"My dear Isobel, I'm so sorry for the intrusion, but we need to talk."

Isobel dismissed her maid with a nod.

"At this hour?" she asked after a quick look at her watch. "It's quite late and frankly I'm not in the mood for conversation."

She didn't smile and she didn't want to be kind. Alexander grinned. He wasn't in the least insulted nor did he seem to mind her open hostility.

"I can imagine," he said and sat down. Without ruffle or excitement he pulled out his pipe, stuffed, and lit it. His demeanour already annoyed Isobel and she wondered how she would be able to tolerate his presence in her house before she would throw him out.

"This isn't about what I want. It's much more about what I can do."

"Being mysterious is the last resort for a person without secrets," Isobel quoted the Dowager. Alexander always knew how to bring out the worst in her. It was easy to be unkind to him, because his arrogance and hypocrisy virtually demanded an evil response.

"I see, you haven't lost your touch - despite the many disturbances you're facing these days. Tell me, how is Lord Merton? Still grieving his beloved wife or is he already trying to slip the hook?"

"What hook?"

"Not yours, of course, I'm quite aware of his besotted feelings for you. I was talking about the police."

The smoke of his pipe hung in the air. It smelled of tobacco and cherries. Ever since she knew him, the smell had followed him like a cloud. It would never not disgust her. How did he know the police had questioned Dickie?

"What's it to you?" she asked.

"Oh, a lot. Everything that makes your life complicated is of importance to me."

The coldness and matter of factness in his voice drove a shiver up and down her spine. "I had no idea I was that interesting for you."

"Oh, you are… you always were. From the very first moment Reginald introduced you to me."

"How fascinating."

"Not really. I think it was inevitable. Reginald was obsessed with you. I think it was because he couldn't control you. You were like a maverick… the wild card in an otherwise boring game. I told him you were not worth the sleepless nights or the heartbreak, but he was simply swept off his feet. I can still hear him… 'She's different, Alex. She's the one'. What a joke!"

"Alexander…."

"No, I mean it. He saw something in you that I never quite understood. I thought the spell was broken when you ran away to South Africa. After you had left he seemed to have come to his senses…. Out of sight, out of mind. I finally had my friend back, and then he went after Emma... Poor, sweet Emma. I understood too late that she was nothing but a substitute for you. Reginald only used her to get over you. I realized it when you came back, but Emma didn't want to hear any of it. Well, she paid dearly for her faith in him when she watched you going after her husband like a cat in the heat every time you had the chance."

"You know that isn't true!"

"Of course, it is true. I watched you and Reginald day after day working in the hospital. Side by side. He was a man of honour, he was dignified enough to stick to his vows, but you pushed him! He pined away for you and you flirted with him! You threw yourself at him! You wanted him and you didn't stop at anything to get what you wanted!"

"If you're here to insult me, you can leave!"

"I'm merely telling the truth about you. And as we both know the truth hurts."

"You live in your own truth," Isobel snapped. She was on her feet, ready to throw something at him. "I never interfered with Reginald and Emma's marriage. If Reginald were here, he would tell you the same!"

"Not as subtle as you did with Lord Merton's marriage, but you did. You're a homewrecker. That's what you've always been."

"I want you to leave now!"

"Not just yet. I'm not finished."

"I think you've made your point!"

"Not just yet! Sit down!"

He truly scared her now and so she did as he said.

"Good." Once she was sitting again, he relaxed.

"Where did we stop? Ah right… you being a homewrecker. It won't surprise you to know that Lady Merton knew from the very beginning what you were. She saw you for what you truly are. It was quite amusing how foolish you acted, because you felt so sure of yourself and your position… wearing another woman's jewellery in public wasn't very sharp of you. I guess your hybris came through that night. Poor Matthew, he has no idea who you really are, hasn't he?"

"Did Lady Merton pour out her heart to you?"

"In a way, she did. I offered my support when I realized how desperate she was… dying from a French desease while her husband enjoyed his life with his latest whore. It really got to her that her husband was carrying on with some middle class nurse from Manchester. One time she even said, he's always had a thing for playing doctor…. Do you want to know how much I know about you and him?"

He reached inside his jacket and produced a photograph. It showed Isobel as a young woman in a nurses uniform. "Those were the days," he said. "You know when you came home from Africa I was sure you were damaged goods, but I couldn't prove it. You simply looked… ploughed and extremely unhappy. I wondered what happened or say it better who happened to you."

He took a break and prepared another pipe. Isobel stared at him, wondering how to get rid off him. He wouldn't be impressed if she called for her maid. Matthew was at the Abbey and she didn't know how to reach him and Dickie was even further away at Cavenham. She was on her own with someone she started considering an utter lunatic.

"You see, once I spoke to Lady Merton and she told me about the jewellery he gave to you, I started thinking. I mean, the man is perhaps a romantic fool, but I doubted he would hide the jewellery for years from his wife just to give it to some random mistress. So I started wondering, if under any circumstances it was possible that you and the Lord had some sort of history. I know Matthew is wondering the same, but you seemed to have convinced him that you're still the respectable lady he wants you to be. Anyway, I hired someone to find out, if it could be true and guess what? What I found was even better than I what I imagined."

He made another break, hoping to get a reaction from her, but she remained silent, waited, thought about how to make him leave.

"Dickie Merton's brother died in South Africa in the same hospital you worked in. I guess you tried your luck with him until he died and then you met his younger, dashing brother who happened to inherit the title. Was is tough to realize he wouldn't marry you, because he was already engaged to someone else? Or didn't he care to marry someone beneath his status? I guess so it was the latter. Anyway, your little adventure was soon over once you were injured in an explosion and they sent you home. From the file my investigator discovered you were quite a wreck, lucky to be alive, but as always you ended up on your feet. Even the doctor who treated your injuries was reluctant to talk about you. Interesting man, by the way. Doctor Blackwell. Quite sophisticated with good taste and a thing for hopeless causes. For many women in need he was the one man to turn to. I think he aborted more children between here and Kenia than any other doctor I've ever heard of. But I'm sure you know all about this."

"Is there any point in your dreadful monologue? Is there anything relevant you wish to tell me?"

"You've always been so impatient. I've waited forty years for this moment, so please, give it the time it needs to unfold."

Again, she rose to her feet. She was ready to get help from someone in the street. Again it was the harsh edge in his voice that scared her enough to stay where she was. He caught her wrist and his grip was painful, as he forced her backwards into her seat.

"If you get up one more time, you'll live to regret it!"

He straightened his sleeve before he continued. "So, you went on with your life. You made my sister's life a living hell until she died, you married her husband and gave him a son. At least that worked out for Reginald… He had the son he always craved for, even when this son turned out to be a lot more like you. Then when Reginald died, far too young and before his time, you found out your son was the heir of Lord Grantham. You came here and you made yourself comfortable. During the war you went to France and there you met Lord Merton again. I wonder, if you planned it or if it was all a lucky coincidence. I personally don't believe in coincidences, but I'm sure it was easy for you to make him believe, this was your common destiny. The biggest question is still what exactly happened to poor Mrs Pommeroy? Did the two of you track her down and kill her when she refused to give away the jewels her husband had given to her? Or was it entirely different? The fact is they found her body months after her death and it took them over a year to identify her. By that time you were long gone and since she was a foreigner, no one really bothered to find out what killed her. A widow who lives in the neighbourhood remembered a strange trio who spent about two weeks a small apartment near the building where the body was found. A woman and two men were frequently seen until one day they suddenly disappeared and were never seen again."

Isobel said nothing. She was done talking and waited for his great finish. She had no doubt that he was ready to assault her, if she yelled for help.

"You see, Isobel, I'm here because I want you to know that your life is in my hands."

"Whatever for?

"Vengeance of course."

"Vengeance for what?"

"Emma, Reginald… I lost my sister and my best friend because of you."

Isobel was weighing her options. She could just listen to Alexander, hoping he would leave or she could put up a fight. She chose the latter.

"As far as I remember you lost Reginald when you asked something of him, he didn't care to give."

In her eyes she could see that she had struck a nerve. "Alcohol is never a good adviser, is it?"

"He has told you nothing. Don't make a fool of yourself."

"He's told me everything," she said. "He trusted me and as you said, he was devoted to me. He never kept secrets from me. He was very distraught about how the evening had ended. He always had this… hunch about you, but he didn't think you would actually act on it. He told me he felt rather sorry for you."

"Don't you dare!" His relaxed posture was gone as he glared at her.

"Why not? You waste your time to frame me for murder, you make baseless threats and all of it, because you can't get over the fact that my husband has chosen not only me but your own sister over you. Reginald had no interest in you. He picked you as Matthew's godfather out of obligation, but not because he felt you were a good choice or even a role model. He knew what you were. A pathetic, undistinguished physician!"

"Well, this undistinguished physician saved your life once. Did you forget that without me you wouldn't even be alive?" he shouted at her. "I saved you from my sister's fate, because Reginald begged me to! He was pathetic! It was cringeworthy to watch him crying, because you weren't able to bring another child into this world. It was as I told you back then…. You were nothing but bad breeding material!"

He threw his pipe at her. She ducked and it ended against the mantelpiece of her fireplace. Plaster flew off, ended on the floor.

He jumped up and so did she. They stared into each other's eyes, both unwilling to give in. She knew she was weaker than he was. If he wanted to, he could hurt her, even kill her with his bare hands. She read in his eyes, he contemplated killing her once and for all.

"Leave my house!" she hissed.

He made a step forward. She smelled his heavy tobacco breath, had to swallow down the bile that rose in her throat.

"You have one option," he said. "You can go to the police and confess to the killing of Alice Pommeroy and Lady Merton or more evidence leading to your daft lover will find its way to Scotland Yard and to Fleet Street. I have the means to prove it and you know it. Matthew will know what a pitiful whore you are and Lord Merton will hang for killing two women! It's either you or him. One of you will die. It's your choice, Isobel!"

*****tbc*****

**I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written, so please let me know, if it was worth the effort LOL. The story is coming to an end pretty soon. It was a great ride for me so far, but it's time to finish it. **


	18. Alexander

**Chapter 18 - Alexander **

_Downton, 1920_

"I'm so angry!"

Dickie couldn't remember a time when he had seen Isobel this furious. Not only had she come to Cavenham - something she had never done before - she was also pacing the room like a caged tigress. He could tell she was not just angry, but also frightened. The way she toyed with her gloves and her agitated movements spoke volumes about her fear. She who was always so calm and collected, who hadn't bit an eyelid when a woman who had held her captive had been shot in front of her eyes, was suddenly scared out of her wits. Her report about her late night visitor from the other night sounded as unbelievable as it sounded scary. He didn't know the man in question; he had only seen him twice, and from Isobel had told him about Sir Alexander he never felt the wish to get acquainted with him. Perhaps that had been a mistake that needed to be corrected rather sooner than later.

"I spoke to my solicitor this morning" Dickie, hoping the news would calm her down. "He thinks there's a very slight chance anyone will take the accusations seriously."

"But we don't know what exactly his so called private investigator found out and what they added to make their story stick! The point is there's a lot of truth in it. It's twisted and turned, but the facts are undeniable. Alice Pommeroy was killed and we hid her body! And what about Ruggles? We have an obligation towards him as well. He saved our lives!"

We went to her and gently touched her shoulders. "Don't you worry about Ruggles. He's my responsibility."

"You've changed your tune," she said. "Yesterday you were as worried as I am."

"That was before I spoke to someone who knows how to deal with defamation and false accusations and I want you to speak to him, too. Tell him everything you know about Mister Ferguson. He isn't the only one who can pay the right people to get what he wants."

"After last night I think he's a lunatic. The man's completely mad!"

"You told me he was holding a grudge against you, but you never told me why."

She shrugged and avoided his eyes. "I'm afraid it's because of something I've misjudged."

"What do you mean?" he asked. It annoyed him that she was tiptoeing around the issue. It was high time to stop talking in half truths and inklings.

"I misjudged him… his feelings for Reginald. I thought it was some sort of… admiration..." her voice trailed off. "I was young, naive, and I had no experience until Reginald told me one day."

"I see. Unrequited love is never easy to get over."

"No. The question is why it turned into hate against me... I mean, if Emma hadn't died, Reginald would have never married me…." She shook her head. "I should hate to tell some stranger about it. It's private."

He placed a kiss on her forehead, hoping it would comfort her. "I know it's going to be unpleasant, but something you will have to tell our solicitor as well. The more he knows about Ferguson's motivation the better."

She just nodded and then she said, "I'm afraid I'll have to go to London tomorrow Just for the day, but there's something I have to take care of."

"Are you sure? Don't you think it's safer to stay here?"

"Perhaps but… I have an engagement with Doctor Blackwell. He's the only one who can help me."

The mention of Blackwell's name came unexpected and made him uncomfortable. He knew she had told him saw nothing more than a friend in Blackwell, but the existence of the man bothered him. It was foolish to be that jealous who had been nothing more than a correspondence partner, but he couldn't help it. There was something about the trust she had in him that aroused his suspicion.

"If you say so…" he cleared his throat and turned his face away. He didn't want her to see how much her plans disturbed him.

"Dickie, look at me." She placed her hand on his cheek and gently caressed his chin with her thumb. Her tender touch didn't fail its purpose. Unable to deny here request he looked at her, annoyed she noticed his distress.

"You have to trust me on this," she said quietly. "Doctor Blackwell is a friend and there's nothing you have to worry about. I think he can help our cause… I love you, don't you know that by now?"

She rolled up to her tiptoes and kissed him. "So why won't you tell me, why you need to see him?" he asked after their kiss had ended.

"Because, if I'm wrong with my assumption I'll look pretty foolish."

"I doubt I could ever think of you as foolish."

"You don't know the worst of me then," she teased him. "And now kiss me, before I have to go. I don't want your servants to think I'm preying on. You're in mourning after all."

She ran her hand tenderly over the collar of his black jacket. "It suits you," she said. "But I wouldn't mind taking it off."

"And I wouldn't mind if you did," he said. "I miss you desperately, do you know that?"

"I miss you too," she said gently and kissed him once more. "Soon it'll be all behind us. Soon, we can be together."

* * *

_London_

"When did you say took your surgery place?" Timothy asked while he took some notes.

"In eighty-seven," Isobel answered from behind the screen in the corner of the room where she got dressed again.

"And you've never been pregnant after that?"

"No, the treating physician told me I had no chance to carry a child again. He didn't exaggerate."

"But you never experienced medical problems during your pregnancy with Matthew? No early contractions or anything like it?"

"No, but every time I was pregnant I suffered from severe morning sickness for a few months. Even in South Africa, but of course I didn't know I was pregnant back then. I thought I had caught some other infection."

With a sigh she closed the last button of her blouse and went to the mirror to put on her hat.

Timothy looked up from his notes when he heard her steps. "Who was your treating physician? I need to get your medical file from him to get the whole picture. I need to know what exactly happened during the operation."

"That'll be a problem," she answered. "His name is Alexander Ferguson."

"The Sir Alexander Ferguson?" Timothy asked, his eyebrows crooked. Isobel noticed that he didn't sound impressed by the name, just irritated.

"The one and only."

"I see." He rose and cleared his throat.

"Do you know him?" Isobel asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Timothy said. He avoided her eyes and walked up and down the room. Isobel watched him with growing suspicion. When he finally stopped pacing he leaned against the edge of his desk and and folded his hands over his chest. "You could have gone to any other physician with this. Why did you come to me?"

"It's just that he mentioned your name in a way that arouse my curiosity and I wondered, what you know about him," she said.

"I know that he's very full of himself."

Isobel smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "That's the understatement of the year."

"If it's true what you say, he saved your life and the lives of many other women. He's a good doctor, not the best, but good enough."

"Well, he couldn't save his own sister," Isobel pointed out. "He blames me for it, because he thinks I bullied her into a miscarriage."

Timothy laughed, "That's nonsense. He should know you would never harm anyone!"

"I know, I never hurt Emma. I teased her, yes, but I never harassed her. I was with her when she died and I can tell you, it wasn't a normal miscarriage. Even back then I believed she was administered something that may caused it, but no one wanted to listen to me and today I'm sure of it!"

Timothy swallowed. "Isobel, what do you want from me? There's no way we can prove what happened to this woman. It's been almost forty years!"

"She was Reginald's first wife," Isobel explained. Timothy swallowed after he had digested the news. "She was a perfectly healthy young woman and her pregnancy was perfectly normal until one day she simply collapsed and died."

"That must have been horrible, but you know things like this happened and they still happen…"

"I have a suspicion. When I lost my child, I suffered from similar symptoms like Emma, just not that severe…. I had contractions, high temperature, and I bleed."

"You know that most miscarriages are like that…." Timothy rubbed his neck and started pacing the room. Sensing she was getting nowhere with her reasoning, she changed the subject.

"How did you meet Alexander?" she asked.

"At a congress in Dublin…. That was before the war. That was before they knighted him. He was giving a speech about…." he broke off and groaned annoyed.

"About what?"

"The dangers of self induced abortion," he said with a sigh. "Look, I admit the man is…. Obnoxiously self-centered and arrogant, but poisoning his own sister and you sounds very far-fetched to me."

"I think I know him better than you do," she said. "Unless, there's something you're not telling me."

Timothy became pale. For her it was the sign that her suspicion was right.

"It's a private matter, Isobel, and I prefer not to discuss it with you." He pushed his hands into his pockets.

"The two of you were close once… in Dublin, weren't you?"

Timothy closed his eyes, trying to keep his composure. "Isobel, please…."

"Please, he's mad, jealous man. If he killed Emma and tried to kill me, because he couldn't stand the idea of Reginald having a family with a woman, I need to prove that… he's threatened Dickie and me! I don't want to die at the end of a rope, because he wants to take his revenge out on me and the people I care for!"

"I can't believe he would leash out at unborn, innocent children!" Timothy shouted. "No man can be that sick!"

"I think he is!" She knew she sounded desperate. "I need your help!"

He drew a deep breath, went to his desk and wrote something down. He gave her a piece of paper.

"Telephone this number," he said.

"Who is this?" she asked.

"A specialist," he said. "She knows all about herbs and oils and such things. I only know how to use my scalpel. If someone can help you, it's her."

"Thank you," she said. It wasn't the help she had expected, but it was all he had to offer her. "I appreciate it. I really do."

"Just promise me one thing," he said.

"Anything."

"Don't think too badly of me."

She leaned forward and gave him a peg on the cheek. "I never would." She picked up her things and left the parlour office with looking back.

"Goodbye, Isobel," he said, once she was gone.

* * *

_Downton _

Two days later Matthew sat in Violet's drawing room, unsure if he was hearing her correctly. Violet, every ounce the imperious matriarch toyed with her cane while she instructed him about her plans.

"You can't be serious, Cousin Violet. Even if I could bring myself to believe any of it…"

Violet cut him off, "You will believe it, once I'm done!"

"It is impossible," he repeated stubbornly. "Even if Mother is convinced of his guilt…."

"You don't know people the way I do," she said. "When they're unhappy they sometimes retreat to their most baser human instincts and act accordingly. When your mother called me, she was extremely insistent."

"She's always extremely insistent. And perhaps some people do act on baser instincts, but deceit and murder are different beasts."

"You've been a soldier, Matthew. You've fought in the most ugly war the world has ever seen. You've seen with your own eyes what men are capable off to hurt the enemy. Alexander Ferguson is nothing more than a soldier on forlorn mission and I think it's high time we end it. Preferable in a way that leaves him defeated and that's why I need you here when he arrives."

"In other words 'All is fair in love and war'?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes. That's the spirit."

"I still think it's mad! If he's as devious as you paint him, he won't fall for your act."

"I think you underestimate my capacity to gain people's trust." She smiled and not for the first time Matthew wondered, if he ever wanted to be at odds with her when she was on warpath.

"All right, I'll do it. But if he's as mad as you and Mother think, I'll need reinforcement."

* * *

It was after ten o'clock in the evening when Dickie received Alexander Ferguson in his drawing room. The man had announced himself in a letter in the evening post, which saved him the trouble of having to search for him.

He had the inkling Isobel wouldn't be happy about the meeting, but he hadn't heard from her since she had gone up to London a few days ago and the engagement with his solicitor was supposed to take place in two days.

Napoleon complex was the first thing he had to think of when Ferguson entered the room. The man had a good tailor who did his best to let him appear taller than he was. To Dickie's surprise the man wore his full evening attire including a top hat. He carried a cane that he didn't need and the smell of cherry tobacco followed Ferguson like a cloud.

"I'm sorry for the late intrusion, but it couldn't be helped," Ferguson said. "I'm coming from York where I attended a dinner at the Royal Hotel."

"What gives me the doubtable pleasure of you visit?"

Ferguson crooked his eyebrow. "I see, Mrs Crawley has already spoken to you about my… offer."

"Let's call it what it is: blackmail."

"Blackmail is an ugly word and doesn't fit my description for justice," Ferguson countered. He looked around and picked an armchair near the fireplace to make himself comfortable.

"Justice?" Dickie repeated. "Justice for what?"

"For my sister's death, of course. And what about the untimely demise of my dear friend Doctor Crawley?" He it his pipe.

"That was hardly Mrs Crawley's fault. He died from a heart attack."

"Caused by her… she's always so full of energy. She never allows anyone near her to slow down. But I guess you know that by now. After all you've travelled her with across a war zone."

"Whatever you intend to achieve, it won't happen. Very soon you'll hear from my solicitor and after that the police will call on you."

Ferguson laughed. "I think the police will call on you first. I can prove you killed Alice Pommeroy. I've found witnesses who will swear you were there and then there's of course the jewellery, letters in Mrs Pommeroy's estate that will prove her husband stole it from your wife. And then there's of course Lady Merton's tragic death…. I will prove you and Mrs Crawley conspired to kill her. My offer is that I'll ensure you'll go away scot-free, if you tell the prosecutor that Mrs Crawley is the true culprit in this. I' sure everyone will believe you, when you tell them how she managed to… secure your affection."

Once again Dickie was baffled by the man's nerve. He was a man to Ada's taste. Ruthless and nasty, angry with the world. Two peas in a pot.

"I'm afraid your offer is… wasted on me. You failed to scare Mrs Crawley and right now you fail to scare me. It's all huff and puff. You've no proof and I think you're here because you're desperate."

Ferguson chuckled. "It's amazing how she wrapped you around her finger, but I'll admit that she knows how to lure a man into her web - at least those who are weak enough to fall for a pretty face."

"Like her husband?" Dickie asked, hoping to struck a nerve.

"Reginald was misguided and in grief when she went after him. He was her victim just like you are her victim. Perhaps the easiest." Ferguson cleared his throat. "I came here to do you a favour, but it seems you're unteachable. If you want to go down with Mrs Crawley, there's nothing I could do or say to convince you otherwise." He rose and emptied his pipe in the ashtray. "Just let me tell you this, after everything she took from you, she is not worthy of your devotion."

"Mrs Crawley didn't kill Lady Merton or anyone else," Dickie said, as he walked to the door. He was sick of Ferguson's presence in his home. Isobel was right. The man was completely deluded and someone needed to stop him.

"I wasn't talking about your poor wife. I was talking about your child."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Didn't she tell you about her close friendship with Doctor Blackwell?"

"Of course she did."

"Well, he may started out as surgeon, but after the first boer war he specialised in gynaecology. I guess, she was the one who inspired him to follow another path. You see, I know for a fact that he helped her getting rid off the child she was expecting when she transferred from her post in the hospital where your brother died. I think it's likely that it was yours. Of course with her one can never know, but..."

"I don't believe you."

"That's of course up to you, but why don't you ask her at your next secret rendezvous? I mean, imagine how different your life would be today, if she had told you about the child in the first place…. But then she was obsessed with Doctor Crawley and a child from another man would have been in her way, not to mention the shame of it all. She was clever enough not to end up in the streets."

"Spare me your tales. She would have told me if any such thing had occurred." He tore the door open and called for his butler. Against his wish and better judgement Ferguson's words had struck a nerve. The man was always tiptoeing around the truth, twisted and turned it to his advantage, but he also remembered Isobel's avoidance of the subject Doctor Blackwell. The way she refused talking about her medical history…. No, he refused to believe it.

"Sir Alexander is ready to leave."

Ferguson tipped against his top hat. "Good evening Lord Merton. I guess the next time we meet you'll stand in the dock next to her."

The butler led Ferguson outside and Dickie slammed the door. When he went to bed that night he took a bottle of whiskey with him, but the alcohol didn't help him to fall asleep. Sir Alexander's words kept echoing in his head and tormented him.

* * *

Violet checked the table Spratt had set for tea and adjusted a teaspoon. Everything had to be perfect for her engagement with Sir Alexander Ferguson who had to arrive any minute. She didn't believe he would actually notice any inaccuracy, but she believed in perfection. To her he was nothing more than an unworthy parvenue who needed to be stopped before he harmed members of her family or the good name of such. It was time to end his infamous presence in their lives once and for all. She only hoped Matthew wouldn't spoil her plans. He had Isobel's temper and it had been difficult enough to convince her that staying away from the Dower House was best for everyone involved.

The door opened and Spratt led the way for her guest.

"Sir Alexander Ferguson, Milady."

"Thank you, Spratt. You can serve the tea."

She dismissed her butler with a nod and Ferguson made a small bow when he reached her. Violet registered for the first time that the man was not taller than she was. His suit was very modern and flamboyant for the countryside.

"Lady Grantham, how kind of you to invite me."

"The pleasure is all mine," she said and led him to the table, where he set the chair for her.

"I have to admit your letter took me by surprise," he admitted. "I always thought of you and Mrs Crawley as friends."

Violet chuckled amused. "Mrs Crawley is not exactly what I would call a friend. She's a distant relative who can't be removed from our midst - at least that is what I thought, before you entered the picture."

"What makes you think that?" As Violet had expected it, Ferguson was wary of her. It was exactly what she had hoped for, because it made her task all the more interesting.

"A few days ago Mrs Crawley came to see me," Violet reported. "She was quite desperate, because she fears for her future and of course the future of her son as the heir of Grantham. If she's exposed as a double murderess and has to stand trial, she knows her son's legacy lies in shambles. The scandal would hurt the family beyond measure."

Alexander didn't respond, because Spratt came in and served the tea. When he was gone again, Violet added, "Well, of course, none of this had happened, if she hadn't started an inappropriate relationship with a married man."

"You know about that, too?" he asked surprised.

"I knew it from the very beginning. Nothing passes my observation. Just as I knew from the very beginning that she and you didn't see eye to eye. I was curious why, but, as you can imagine she explained it to me."

"It's a feud with tradition," Alexander said. "I could never stand her and vice versa."

"Which makes you my perfect ally."

"And why is that?"

"I need someone to help me get Mrs Crawley out of my hair. Ever since she arrived, she has done everything in her power to diminish my influence. She thinks being the mother of the heir gives her the right to take over my place."

"That's typical for her, but…." he made a pause, mere for the effect of his following words. "But I don't see how you could be useful to me."

Violet smirked, "You only say that because you don't know how influence, and I mean real influence, in a community like ours works. From what I heard Lord Merton has already hired a whole brigade of law men who will make sure not one of your allegations will even end up in court. All your efforts will be wasted, because you backed the wrong horse."

"And how will you make it happen that they do end up in court?" Alexander asked.

"It's not my intention to do so. The last thing I want is to read about it in the papers. I want Mrs Crawley gone once and for all. That's about it."

"I'm afraid you've lost me," Ferguson admitted. "I'm sure you can find a way to send her back to Manchester, if you wanted to."

Violet sighed exasperated. "I really have to draw you a map, haven't I?" She gave him her best, stern look. He almost choked on his tea. "You want her dead?"

"Well, Lady Merton is dead, isn't she? Since I doubt Cousin Isobel dressed up as a nurse and sneaked into the hospital to give her fatal injection, it must have been someone else. It can't have been Lord Merton because he's way too… feeble-minded to kill without being seen."

"I can assure you that Lady Merton killed herself," Alexander said.

"But if she did it herself how can you produce proof of Mrs Crawley's guilt?"

Alexander hesitated, but then he leaned again forward and lowered his voice, "Once my plan is in motion the police will find sufficient evidence of her guilt in her possession. Then there's the evidence my private investigator collected. It's enough for any good prosecutor to spin the story in a way that convinces the judge. If my assumption is correct Lord Merton will withdraw his brigade of solicitors very soon - if he hasn't done it already."

Violet's surprise was not an act. It was an development she knew nothing about. "May I ask how you accomplished that?"

Ferguson grinned, "I fed him a piece of information that ensures Mrs Crawley's influence over him is a thing of the past. Romantic fool or not, the last thing any man can stand is a blow at his ego." He made a dramatic gesture and looked at his pocket watch. "I'm afraid I have to take my leave now. It was a pleasure talking to you, but I think I can do without your support. Mrs Crawley is finished thanks to me and without your help."

Violet quickly got hold of her bell and rang for Spratt, but he didn't appear. Ferguson didn't seem to mind. He seemed too ensouled and pleased by his success.

"Don't worry, Lady Grantham, I'll find my way outside. I hope Isobel knows how to value your friendship for what it is!"

He have her a shameless grin and rose. Violet grabbed for her cane and followed him to the door.

"Is there nothing you have to say about Matthew? His father made you his godfather. Won't it hurt him and his future when his mother's reputation is torn to shreds in front of the whole world?"

"Matthew has been one of the biggest disappointments of my life," he said. "I had such high hopes for him, but it's not only that he looks like his mother, he's just like her, he didn't even became a doctor. Corporate law… what a waste, as if any of them had ever accomplished anything lasting or fruitful. I wish he were more like Reginald, but with Isobel as mother what was there to expect? She fed him her ideas and her view of the world. I'm glad I made sure Matthew was an only child. It was his father who should have the title, not his son."

Violet swallowed. If she ever had any doubts about the man's delusion and guilt, they were gone. "Does he know how you feel about him?"

"Not yet. I still need him, but once it's done, he will know everything he needs to know. Good day, Lady Grantham."

Satisfied with his performance, he reached out. His hand closed around the doorknob, but the door suddenly opened without his doing. Violet watched with bated breath how Sir Alexander found himself face to face with Matthew.

"I hope you don't mind me being here, but Cousin Violet thought this could become an eye opening afternoon," Matthew said as he slowly walked into the room. Alexander was aghast, but sobered up quickly. He gave Violet a glare that would freeze other people's blood, but Violet remained stoic.

"I knew this was a trap. Women are all the same, but that doesn't mean we ought to believe them. I just played along to gain her trust. You heard what she said about your mother!"

"I heard it. I didn't want to believe Mother when she told me. I thought she was exaggerating… How very disappointing that the man I trusted is not only a traitor, but also a dangerous criminal."

Ferguson's cheeks flushed. "I am not a criminal. I may be many things, but not a criminal."

"I beg to differ. Arrest him, Sergeant." Behind Matthew Inspector Vyner and a uniformed policeman entered the room. "Initially I thought this would be a waste of time, but I was wrong. If I ever need a honey trap again, I'll call on you, Lady Grantham."

"I don't know what that means, but it sounds rather dubious," Violet quipped.

"It was a compliment," Vyner countered while his colleague handcuffed Ferguson.

"What is your charge?" he barked. "Gossiping in an old bat's shack?"

"It's more like suspicion of criminal assault in at least two cases, manslaughter in at least two cases, misleading justice, and possession of controlled substances. I'm sure that's just the tip of the iceberg and you'll sink like the Titanic."

"Humbug! Matthew, do ask your mother about Mrs Pommeroy! She has blood on her hands, if you want to believe it or not!"

"It's good that mention it," Vyner said. "This morning we received a deposition about Mrs Pommeroy's death. It seems your murder case is nothing more than a case of self-defence. I doubt the French will waste their efforts on it."

"A deposition? From whom?"

"Would you like to know!" For the first time Vyner grinned. Then the Inspector lost his smile and he said. "Last night a sister of mine ended up in the hands of a phony like you. She died the most miserable death because she trusted some herbs and oils would take care of her problem." He looked at the other policeman. "Take him out of my sight!"

******tbc******

**So, that's it... almost... Two chapters left... well, one and a half ;-) Thanks for reading and sticking with me! Have a great weak! **


	19. Goodbyes

**Chapter 19 - Goodbyes**

"_Goodbyes are not forever, are not the end; it simply means I'll miss you until we meet again." - Unknown _

_Downton, 1920_

The news of Alexander Ferguson's death reached Isobel two days after his arrest at the Dower House. At the same day a letter from Timothy Blackwell arrived with the morning post. She had read it half a dozen times and it was still on her mind when she received Matthew, Violet, and Dickie for tea in the afternoon.

It was over. Alexander Ferguson wasn't a threat anymore and from what Inspector Vyner from Scotland Yard had told her, no one was going to further investigate the death of Alice Pommeroy.

Yet, she didn't feel any of the expected relief. Alexander had committed suicide in his prison cell, which didn't come as a surprise to her. He had chosen the coward's way out before he had to take responsible for any his countless evil actions. He had chosen to hang himself before Vyner could make an extensive interview with him. As a result they would never receive answers to various questions, which left them the wide field of speculation and theorizing.

Isobel wouldn't grieve for him, if anything she felt sorry for Matthew, who had lost a father figure. On the surface he coped well, but she knew her son better. He suffered from not only from Alexander's death, but also from his betrayal. Every kindness, every advice from this man had been an act of deceit and that was harder to bear than open hostility.

Beside her worry for Matthew's peace of mind, she also worried about Dickie. He was awfully quiet and every time he looked at her, she noticed a stony, almost unfeeling expression on his face. His usually friendly eyes had lost their sparkle. He had never looked at her like that before and it made her uncomfortable.

"I talked to Vyner this morning," Matthew reported. "They've searched Alexander's rooms in the club and also his practice and private apartment in Manchester. They found secret records about tests with various abortion drugs. Potions, concoctions made of herbs and essential oils, most of them were nothing but pure poison. He dreamt about coming up with an effective drug that can be used for abortions. Apparently he started working on them when his sister Emma became pregnant. She was his first victim. According to his diary he put in her tea on a regular basis and waited for the effect to kick in. Well, we know how it ended."

"In other words, he didn't mean to kill her?" Dickie asked. "It was just an accident?"

"We can't know for sure, of course. It seems he just wanted her to lose the baby." Matthew looked at Isobel. "You were lucky. In 1887 he had already produced an advanced variation of his drug. If he had induced you the same stuff as his sister, you would probably have died as well."

"He still made sure you would be an only child," she concluded bitterly and poured herself another cup of tea.

"Well, why are you alive then?" Violet asked Matthew. "Wouldn't he have tried the same before you were born?"

That was something Isobel had been thinking about as well and she had the answer. "He didn't spent a lot of time in England around the time Matthew was born. He spent a few months in the United States. Reginald had written to him, asking him to become Matthew's godfather," Isobel reported. "He wasn't even at our wedding I think… I didn't think much of it back then, but now it makes sense." No one but Violet found it in his heart to make a comment "What a dreadful little man," Violet shuttered and gave Isobel her cup.

Matthew agreed. "You can say that again. God knows, how many women he poisoned with his drugs."

Suddenly Dickie put his cup down and rose. "I think I have to take my leave," he said. "One of my tenants wanted to pay call to me."

"I should go to," Matthew said. "Mary's waiting for me."

The men left together and Isobel noticed that Dickie avoided every attempt to make eye contact. The contents of Timothy's letter came back to her mind and an awkward fear started creeping up on her.

"What is it?" Violet asked, once they were alone.

"Nothing," Isobel lied.

"Well, it must be something, because for the first time in months the man avoided you like the plague. Did you have an argument?"

"No," Isobel answered. "We haven't talked in days actually."

"Well, perhaps it's time you changed that."

"Why do you care?" Isobel asked, truly curious. The dowager's motivation was still a mystery to her. "What's it to you?"

"I like a good story and yours has everything many novels these days lack."

"Which is?"

"Ce petit quelque chose," Violet answered. Isobel rolled her eyes and sat down again. Whatever it was that bothered Dickie, she had to find out what it was.

* * *

_South Africa, 1881 _

Tired and with every bone in her body hurting Isobel made her way through the crowd at the pier. She was on her way to the ship that would bring her home to England. With her few belonging stuffed in her bag she watched the soldiers and civilians who chatted and pushed towards the ship. The harbour was chaotic mess of people, some people ran into her, some other complained when she ran into them.

She dreaded going home, but she had no choice. She was sick, disillusioned, and tired. The war was almost over. No one dared to say it but they peace talks were slow and the British bloodshed in the battlefields more and more abhorrent. Just like her private life this war was a disaster.

"Miss Turnbull!" She stopped and looked around. Sure, she had heard someone calling out her name, she stretched, but no one approached her. Did she feel that lonely that she had started imagining things? Scolding herself for her wishful thinking, she marched on until she heard her name again.

"Miss Turnbull! Miss Turnbull! Isobel!" Again she stopped, and this time she saw him. Tall and handsome in his uniform Richard Grey rushed towards her. When he reached her he took his hat off and made a small bow.

"Major!" For the first time after the explosion she actually smiled. Seeing him felt like coming home after a long journey. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," he said just as surprised as she was. "I thought you served in a field hospital!"

"Oh, I did…" she broke off, blushed, and cleared her throat. She hated to tell a lie, but it was best that way. Telling him about the real reason why she was on her way back to England would only complicate matters. He was engaged to another woman after all and so was she - at least in theory. "I'm on my way home. Family troubles… and you?"

"I see… Well, I'm here for the peace talks. I'm a member of the entourage of the prime minister." He shrugged a little embarrassed. "Being the oldest all of the sudden has its… consequences."

"They made a good choice." She vaguely pointed at the ship in the background. "My ship will leave in two hours. I have to get going…."

"Of course, you have."

"I wish you nothing the best," she said and suddenly moved to tears she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Surprised by her sentiment he blushed and looked down to the tip of his feet.

"I will miss you," he said. "Have a good life, Isobel Turnbull. I wish…we had more time." Was he making her an offer? If so, she did her best to ignore it.

"You too, Richard Grey. I will never forget you. You made me feel special when no one else would. Such good luck with ending his war and everything else!"

She picked up her bag again and moved past him. One her way to the gangway she felt his eyes on her. It was tempting to turn around to spend more time with him, but she decided against it. He deserved more than a woman who was in love with someone else. He had to live his life like she had to live hers. It was time to go home to England. It was time to face Reginald, and, when the circumstances required it, to move on from him. It was something she never would, if she ran off with another man.

* * *

_Paris, 1918_

He registered her satisfied groan with a smile. Encouraged by the delicious sounds that escaped her throat, his mouth continued his journey down her spine. He spread soft kisses over her heated skin and enjoyed the small twitches of her body that told him he was doing something right.

It was their last night in Paris. They had planned their upcoming escape with pernickety rigour. He dreaded the fact that he had to let her go again, but even he realized it was their only way to make sure they all would get out of his alive. They had all risked enough and Ruggles had almost paid with his life for it. It was heartbreaking, but it had to be over. At least they had the chance to spent their last night together. Since Ruggles still occupied the only bedroom, they had to make do with the living room where they prepared an improvised bed on the floor. Their luggage was prepared and stood near the entrance. After the damage the shooting had caused he had to make amends for the damages and the ruined and lost carpets. He had come to like the place despite its lack of space and privacy. He had never felt happier in his life than during this war, and this apartment, which was a perverted paradox in itself.

She giggled when he placed a kiss on her right hip and rolled onto her back.

"You're such a beast…" she mumbled against his lips. "Teasing me like that!"

"I had the impression you were enjoying it."

She didn't reply and simply kissed him once more. As always she refused to talk about anything intimate or emotional. She was and always would be a mystery in that regard.

His mouth ran down her neck and over her chest. She shivered again and dug her hands into his hair. She bit her lower lip and arched against him. In South Africa he had always made it his task to make her moan out loud, but with Ruggles in the other room he abandoned the idea quickly and concentrated on a more silent way to please her.

"We are the lucky ones, you know…"

He lifted his head and looked at her. If she wanted teasing, she should have it. "I feel quite lucky right now, too…." He blinked, but she chuckled, shook her head, and ran her hand over his cheek.

"I wasn't talking about that. I meant us meeting again… after all this time."

"Do you believe in providence?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Not really, I'm afraid."

"Me neither, but it's nice to think such a thing exists, isn't it?" he brushed his lips over her breasts and over her throat.

"You mean it's possible we meet again?" she asked, but it was more of gentle joke than a real question. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her nails trace his spine, something that spurred his desire into another high.

"Wouldn't that be perfectly marvellous?" he asked. She laughed softly and with one swift movement she wrapped her leg around his hip and pushed him onto his back.

"You're such a romantic," she whispered and kissed his chest.

"I was told women like it when men are romantic."

"I never said, I didn't like it. I just think it's time we stopped talking." She kissed him passionately and there was nothing left for him to say aside from, "Your wish is my command."

* * *

_Downton, 1920_

_My dearest Isobel, _

_You certainly will be wondering, why this letter reaches you at this point rather than earlier or why I failed to tell you any of this in person. The truth is I was ashamed. I was too ashamed to tell you face to face. _

_You already know of my acquaintance with Alexander Ferguson. He may rest in peace and I hope the Lord will forgive him what I cannot forgive. _

_What you don't know is that our relationship ran deeper and lasted longer than I admitted to you. I made the mistake of becoming too trustworthy with him and after one glass too many, I told him about a young woman whose medical file I once forced to make sure, she had a life to return to when she went home. He must have made the connection to you when the private detective he hired to investigate your life. I feel like a traitor to you and our long lasting friendship. _

_I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I doubt we will meet again._

_Yours truly,_

_Timothy Blackwell_

* * *

"Why are you showing me this?" Dickie folded Timothy's letter and returned it to Isobel.

"I've shown it to you, because I think you got the wrong impression about my friendship to Dr Blackwell," she said.

The letter had reached her two days ago. Alexander had been dead for one week and she hadn't heard from Dickie since his last visit at Crawley House, when he had barely spoken to her. She had no explanation for his sudden retreat, but she feared that Alexander had something to do with it. Dickie hadn't said it, but she didn't find it unlikely that Ferguson had blown her secret about the child she had lost. She wouldn't pass it towards Ferguson to turn Dickie against her with this kind of information.

Her visit to Cavenham had been unannounced, since she didn't want him to find an excuse to decline her request to see him. He received her, but he seemed as distant as he was one week before.

"I think I had already understood it beforehand. There's no need to show me your correspondence."

"Which means, there's another reason for you to avoid me." She closed her handbag and placed it behind her back.

"I thought it would be good for us to deal with the fallout of Mister Ferguson's schemes on our own." He sighed and rose. With his arms crossed behind his back he strolled over the window and looked outside. It was a ghastly day. Rain was hitting the windows and the last leaves were torn from the trees.

"I beg to differ," she said. "He contacted you, didn't he?"

"Who?"

"Alexander."

"He did. He was here and tried to blackmail me."

It didn't come as a surprise to her. Alexander knew her well enough to know, she wouldn't give in to his requests.

"What did he tell you?"

"He told me everything he told you - and a bit more. He spoke of a terminated pregnancy of yours and Doctor Blackwell's involvement in it."

So, it was as she had feared. She closed her eyes and wished she had prepared herself for this conversation. For forty years she had dreaded the day she had come clean about this. She didn't regret her decision to keep it all a secret. She still believed she had spared them all a lot of pain with her silence about it. It was so like Ferguson to twist the truth to fit it into his own reality.

"I'm afraid Alexander turned and twisted the facts for his favour," she said.

"Oh, I have no doubt about that," Dickie said. He returned to the sitting are and sat down again.

"I told you about the explosion in my hospital. I had no idea I was pregnant when I arrived there and I was quite shocked when Timothy told me I had lost the child. He sent me home, since I had suffered a lot of other injuries as well. It was an accident not a termination."

"I remember how pale you looked when we met at the harbour," he recalled. "I had an inkling you were lying about the reason you went home, but I didn't think I had the right to ask questions."

"I'm not too proud about my lying to you, but I don't regret it," she said. "It is my firm believe that I did us all a favour."

"I don't doubt your motivation," he said pensively. "Was it mine?"

She took her time, before she answered. "Doctor Blackwell couldn't tell me how far I was, but he said it was early. So, yes, I think it's highly probable that it was yours."

"Not that it matters. That's what you think, isn't it?"

"I never thought about it. It was something that happened to me and then I had to go home to pick up the pieces."

"And you did it fabulously."

Silence fell and then she said, "I'm sorry, if I hurt you. It was never my intention, but don't ask me to regret the life I led, because I can't."

"I'm not asking you to regret anything. I never would. I have no right."

"But…?"

He pushed himself up again. "It makes me wonder about us and our relationship."

Her chest became tighter and her stomach started revolting. "What do you mean?"

"I'm wondering if I haven't deluded myself over the last forty years and especially since we met at the Abbey. We have a lot in common and we enjoy each other's company, but it's obvious you don't wish to share every aspect of your life with me. You never have. Not in South Africa, not in France… not here."

She quickly got to her feet. "You know that's not true! How can you say that after everything we've endured during the last couple of months?"

He raised his hand. "Please, I don't doubt you or your sincereness, but right now I doubting myself and us… I've always known you loved Reginald more than me and I thought I could live with it, because things have changed between us after we met again, but I'm not so sure now. That's why I'll leave tonight. I need time to think…for myself."

She gasped, "What do you mean, you leave tonight?" Feeling as if the whole world around her suddenly started tumbling down, she reached out to take his hand.

"Lord Stoubs is going to Egypt tomorrow. He's supporting a dig in the Valley of Kings. It's been ages since I was in Egypt, so I thought maybe it's a good time to join him. He's been asking me for ages."

From all the things she had expected from this conversation this outcome was the very last scenario she had had on her mind. "But… why don't you stay here with me? Shouldn't we spend time together… to talk things over?"

"Not now. Please, don't make this any harder and don't try to change my mind. I'm sure you could, if you wanted to do, but I'm asking you to let me do this."

"And when will you be back?"

"I don't know."

She swallowed. The reality of his words struck her painfully and she released his hand. "As you wish," she said hoarsely. "If that's what you want, I won't keep you here."

"Thank you."

"Will you write?" she asked.

"I'm not sure…. Yet."

It was the final blow against her armour. Sure, she would burst into tears, if she didn't leave now, she bid him goodbye.

"Take care of yourself."

He gave her a weak smile. "You too. I'll tell Ruggles to take you home."

"That won't be necessary. My cab is waiting outside." Without looking back she fled the room. Heartbroken and terrified to have lost the man she loved, she returned home - to pick up the pieces.

******tbc******

**So, you didn't think I would make this easy on you, did you? ;-) Have a great week! **


	20. Home

**So that's it the last chapter. While writing this I was thinking about all the stuff that didn't make it into this version, because I'm not a full time writer. There's Isobel's relationship with Reginald and Emma. There's a possible reunion between her in Dickie in Manchester, which I thought would have been too much. There's Dickie's time in Egypt and there's Timothy Blackwell and his conflict with Alexander Ferguson…. **

**A big thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this story. Your support means so much to me!**

** DAGuest: A Mary & Matthew story? I'm not sure that's my turf… I like them, but so far I've never had the wish to write for them. So many people do and I doubt I could come up with something new and original for them. But thank you for your kind words. They made my day :-) **

**So, let's do this. I'm glad I can post the last chapter of this story, but I will also miss writing it! Have a nice weekend! **

**Chapter 20 - Home **

"_Home is where our story begins…"_

_Downton, 1921_

The year 1921 arrived with tons of snow and the feeling that winter didn't want to end any time soon. Isobel couldn't remember a time in her life when she had dreaded the beginning of a new year this intensely. Every day seemed dark, endless, and her life had become a series of repeating meals and events. Not even the happy news about Mary's pregnancy could cheer her up. Her life was colourless and dull since Dickie had left for Egypt and she found it hard to regain her natural energetic self. She had tried to occupy herself with work at the hospital, but not even that felt the same anymore. Her heart wasn't in it and that bewildered and discouraged her.

The one thing that finally broke off her apathy was a package that reached her on Valentine's Day. It came with a beautiful bouquet of lotus flowers and a letter stamped in Egypt. It wasn't the first letter from him. In fact he had written to her at least once a week since Christmas, but this one finally contained something else than dust, heat, and old bricks. Dickie asked her not to open the package until he was home, but he didn't tell her when he would arrive.

Isobel eyed the oblong object with annoyed curiosity. Five months. She had been waiting for five unbearable long months for him to come home from his self-awareness trip and now he asked her to wait again. She knew, if he was there, he would argue that he had waited for her since 1881, but he wasn't there and she was tired of being the one left behind.

Gritty to prove something to herself she slit open the package and took a look at its contents. It was a manuscript. Bewildered she opened the first page. There was no author's name or a title on it. Just a dedication.

_To Isobel. I knew you wouldn't do as I asked and wait… Enjoy. Love Dickie. _

Miffed because she felt caught red-handed she closed the manuscript and put it on her desk. "Very funny."

Now that he had found the humorist in him, what would happen next?

* * *

She got the answer to her question during the evening. After she came home from the Abbey after dinner, her maid told her, a visitor was waiting for her.

"Who is it?" Isobel asked, wondering why her maid would let anyone inside when she wasn't there.

"He asked me not to tell you," the maid answered much to Isobel's annoyance. "But he told me to give you this."

She handed Isobel a single lotus flower. "He's in the drawing room."

"Thank you," Isobel said and dismissed her for the night. "I can lock up the house myself." After I've thrown him out, she added silently.

The maid vanished and Isobel drew a deep breath and prepared herself for the upcoming conversation. She was torn between excitement and anger. Five months.

She entered the room and she held her breath when she laid her eyes on him. He was standing near the fireplace and stared into the flames.

"Good evening," she said and the door fell shut behind her. He turned and gave her a bright smile. It was obvious he had spent a lot of time in the sun. His face was tanned and his good looks almost made her forget that she wanted to be angry with him.

"You found your way home then," she said as she crossed the room. Carefully she placed the lotus flower on the mantelpiece. "It's not from Egypt, but I thought it's the thought that matters," he said and traced the blossom with his index finger.

"What is this all about?" Isobel asked. "The flowers, the manuscript… I don't understand you."

"Saying that is usually my part," he joked, but his grin faded when he saw she wasn't smiling.

"You're upset," he stated. "Did I overdo it with my wish to surprise you?"

"Well, I am overwhelmed," she clarified. "And I don't know if I understand any of it!"

"In other words, I overdid it."

"Five months all I got from you were letters about scarabs and dust and then all of the sudden you are back without announcing yourself."

"But that's what a surprise is all about."

"Still… why are you here now?"

He tilted his head. "It's Valentine's Day and you're the woman I love. I felt I should be here."

His words made her heart skip a beat. She had missed him so much and now she had him back, but she wasn't ready to trust her luck. Warily she eyed it. "I thought you maybe went to Egypt to look out for some young heiress."

He replied with a crooked eyebrow. "I'm afraid I'm past an age that attracts the attention of young heiresses or young women in general."

"So that's why you are back. How charming."

"You really want me to beg, don't you?"

Unhappy she shook her head. "No." She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "I'm confused," she admitted and placed her hand on the collar of his tweet jacket. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," he confessed. "I've missed you the moment you left my house that day, but I had to do this. Can you forgive me?"

She shrugged and nibbled a bit on her lower lip. "Well, it depends… did you behave?"

"To be completely honest, I once cheated when Lord Stoubs and I played cards, but…."

"That's not what I meant and you know it!" Exasperated she slapped his upper arm. Dumbfounded by her physical attack, he gave her disbelieving glance and then he laughed.

"Isobel, I've spent most of my time in those five months in the desert behind a typewriter! The only interesting thing that happened to me was the discovery of a couple of broken pieces of a jar - turned out it belonged to one of the workers from the dig site."

"What do you mean, you've spent your time behind a typewriter?" she asked. "Does that mean the manuscript is really from you?"

He looked a bit crushed by her question. "Well, yes. I maybe no Arthur Conan Doyle, but the publisher was no unimpressed by my writing."

"What is it about?"

"You really didn't read it?" he asked astonished. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"No. So, will you give me a hint before I keel over from curiosity?"

"Do you remember that night in Paris when you told me to write down my story"

She let her mind travel back to the night after the shooting of Alice Pommeroy. She smiled when she thought about the lack of electricity and how they made love on their improvised bed. "I do…"

"I did what you told me to do. I wrote down our story. You were my muse even though you weren't there," he said. She gasped and he added quickly, "Don't worry, I changed names, dates, and a lot of other things. No one will recognize you and it will be published under an alias… but remembering it all helped me to realize something."

"And what?" she asked doubtfully.

"I will always love you and I will always look for you, no matter where on this earth I am. You fill my heart and my brain and I want to spend the rest of my life in your company. I can live with everything you have to give me as long as I can wake up next to you every morning."

"Oh Dickie!" Moved to tears she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"I love you and I swear I don't love you any less than you love me," she whispered after the kiss had ended.

"So, will you marry me? I mean we can't get married right away without raising too many questions and eyebrows, but next year perhaps?"

"Anytime you want…. We could elope, you know…," she suggested with a blink.

"To Gretna Green? At this time of year?" he asked, pretending to shutter. "I don't want us to run away. If I marry you, everyone will know it. No secrets, no lies."

She chuckled softly and kissed him again. "I'm sure we can manage without getting married immediately," she said. "But you must promise me not to run away again. You scared the hell out of me."

"I promise."

She played with his tie. "I guess it was good thinking of me to send my maid to bed."

"You're always so very practical and forehanded, my darling."

"You better never forget that," she purred and took his hand. She pulled him with her upstairs, but in front of her bedroom door he suddenly stopped her.

"Do you know there wasn't one night in Egypt when I didn't wish you were there?" he asked, after he had pulled her into a tight embrace.

"I felt the same," she admitted. "But I wasn't sure you really wanted me." She cupped his face with her hands. "I should have told you about the miscarriage. I just didn't know how. Perhaps it was all more about protecting myself from any more harm than protecting you. It was the most dreadful time in my life."

He kissed her forehead, "Don't you worry about that. There's nothing to forgive. Our past led us to this point but what counts now is our future."

She smiled gratefully at him, "Very well said. Perhaps I should go downstairs and read your book."

"Don't you dare!" He said and kissed her. "You can do that tomorrow. Tonight will be just about us. This is where the next part of our story starts!"

"Are you already thinking about writing a sequel?" she asked while she undid his tie.

"With you at my side anything can happen."

"That sounds like a challenge," she whispered against his mouth.

He smiled at her and kissed the tip of her nose. "It's a promise, my darling. Love is always a promise!"

******The End**** **


End file.
